


Luville Lovebottom

by LadyHeliotrope



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:24:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22510159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyHeliotrope/pseuds/LadyHeliotrope
Summary: Fanfiction Writers and (non)Celebrities: What Do They Know? Do They Know Things?? Let's Find Out!TumblrKo-Fi
Relationships: Neville Longbottom/Luna Lovegood
Kudos: 8





	Luville Lovebottom

Welcome to my series of Neville/Luna drabbles. I think they were sort of obligated, as characters, to have some sort of romantic interaction even if the almighty J.K. thinks that Luna belongs with Newt Scamander and Neville with Hannah Abbott. Hence this series of little romantic drabbles. To be updated randomly and sporadically as I come up with cute situations. Enjoy! --Alex

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Clap if You Believe in Nargles  
**

He looked at her, caution in his very eyes. She read in quiet, nibbling a hangnail, placid and oblivious. He wanted her, he loved her. She remained aloof, complacent, and unresponsive.

He had to let her know, he could not go on like this. She seemed pensive, perhaps amenable to change.

He was going to try.

"Luna?"

He grappled with the thick stem of the Grudgutt Lily, resident of the pot he cradled in an absentmindedly paternal manner. She was slow in raising her eyes off the page she was reading upside down. He was grateful for this, because it took him a few tedious seconds and an eighth of a teaspoon of sweat to break the stem of the flower. She only looked at him when, finally, she finished reading the page and poised her finger to turn it.

"What is it, Neville?"

He held out the flower, awkward, at arm's length.

She looked at it vaguely.

"Luna?" He gasped again, this time pressuring himself to say the words so much at the forefront of his mind. "I love you."

"I love you too, silly," she said, still examining the flower without extending her hand to embrace it. "Though, I must say, there's a nargle inside that flower. Grudgutt is their favorite to live in, didn't you know?"

"I never knew that," he replied, frustrated, not wanting to discuss nargles. "But what I mean is-"

"Sprout said so only last Monday; look for yourself and you'll see it."

He always liked to oblige her, so he did bring the flower up to his eye to squint at its petals.

Then the nargle bit him on the nose.

"Argh!" he exclaimed in pain, watching the angry nargle shake its tiny foot at him and bounce into another Grudgutt pot.

She shook her head. "Put some chamomile leaf on it, and the bite will disappear," she said, turning the page.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**The Person You Marry  
**

Neville was in the middle of peacefully propounding upon the theories of herbologist J. P. Husker about the correlation of numerology, the cycles of the moon, and the progressively decreasing production of sugars in carnivorous plants. It was rather a dull subject for those who were uninterested in herbology, granted, but it was fascinating for those who were. The sunny October afternoon was nippy as the boy settled in the grass with a few biscuits in his pocket, but his thick Gryffindor scarf protected him against the worst gusts, and he genuinely felt at ease.

Ron and Harry entered the scene, in their usual bombastic and explosive way, causing heads to turn in both silent admiration and deep annoyance. The garden was a place for quiet reflection and solace, not jocular Quidditch players out for a good romp.

". . . but you got to admit, Harry, that pass was just a smashing riot, a real smashing riot!" exclaimed Ron, bitter at his friend's cheerful disagreement. "McLaggen couldn't have been more brilliant, and that's saying a lot, if you know what I mean."

"It was called foul," Harry replied almost absentmindedly, looking around him at myriad eyes and feeling the intense pain of attention.

"But it was brilliant, still," Ron insisted, then meandered over to the heavy-set boy curled up in the bay window with a book. "Hey, Neville, you were at the game yesterday. What did you think of it when McLaggen passed the bludger to Gale and Gale got the score?"

"Erm, I wasn't really at the game yesterday," Neville said, nervous. "I was reading this book." He put his thumb in the spine so he would not lose his place, and he showed them the title.

" _Chlorophyll in Carnivorous Plants and Other Speculations Regarding Them_ by J. P. Husker?" read Ron with disgust. His eyebrows raised with mechanic precision, and he shook his head. "Pretty heady stuff you got there, Neville. What's it about?"

"Erm . . . well . . ." It was always so hard to summarize books when suddenly pulled out from their midst. "It's on herbology. It talks about how numbers and things can be used to predict how much the plants eat and how many carbohydrates they make. The moon is supposed to affect not only the tide, as everyone knows, but also the fluids inside the plant cells and so--"

"Hmph!" Ron exclaimed with disdain. "You would think, mate, that the only person who would be interested in learning about that would be Professor Sprout."

"Well, I find it interesting, I guess," Neville tried to explain, but was cut off by Ron's next rude comment.

"The only other person in the world of our age who would find _that_ interesting, Neville, will be the person you marry!" the redhead declared with a brusque laugh. "Honestly, who gives a rip about a dirty old plant?"

"I do, to some degree," remarked a celestial voice from above them. Nestled in the branches of the ficus, Luna Lovegood sat, holding an old issue of The Quibbler turned upside-down in her traditional way. Without another word, she descended from the tree, careful not to let her skirt flounce as the wind's insistence demanded. Like Mary Poppins she landed, dropping her magazine and letting the breeze take custody of its pages. She instantly and unhesitatingly placed herself next to Neville at the base of the tree.

"We--my father and I--are doing an article for the December issue concerning grafting of magical plants and how it can negatively affect them, and there is a section on how the fluids of the plants will sometimes react very badly to each other, especially during the full or new moons."

Ron gave a guffaw that was barely stiffled by a cough.

"God bless you," Luna said placidly, not deigning to look up at him. At that moment Harry and Ron looked at each other the wrong way, only to burst into unrestrained laughter.

Neville did not even notice. He instead was focused on the beautiful white hand of his starlike nymph as she extended it to turn to the cover of his book, wondering what color ring would be best to adorn it--silver or gold?

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**A Real Nutter**

Xenophilius was in the habit of dropping by a little American Store when he was in London; he always got a box of Cheerios and something else unusual. This explanation did nothing to cheer Neville up, however, when he was presented with a Peanut-Butter and Currant Jelly Sandwich. Last week, the 'something else unusual' consisted of a jar of America's favorite condiment.

"I've had peanut sauce on chicken, when I went to _The Ivy_ with my grandmum before a show, and once I even had some peanut curry, but _peanut butter?_ "

"They call them Goobers, in the States, if that makes it better," Luna added, pleasantly oblivious to Neville's cringe. She was pasting moving pictures onto a Quibbler spreadsheet, occasionally nibbling at the sandwich on her plate.

Neville just looked at the drippy, gooey stuff that oozed from between two slices of bread.

"My grandmum would never approve," he said, squinting at the sandwich.

All in all, the sandwich was of a superior quality. The bread was home-made and fresh, for it was sent over that morning by Mrs. Gibbles, the Lovegood's favorite neighbor. The black-currant jelly was sent by Xenophilius' favorite writer, who was down in Germany hunting down the facts on a certain Kaspar Haus. The sandwich in itself had been assembled by the loving, delicate, china-white hands of Luna. _If_ , Neville considered, _that were it, I'd eat it all without a thought and ask for six more._

Of course, though, his fickle appetite left him when he mentally compared the peanut goo to his morning bowel-movement.

"Couldn't I have one without that stuff?" he queried.

"If you insist," Luna said, without a hint of malice or impatience, and pushed back her chair gingerly. "Bilbo! Here, boy!" she called, putting her hands to her mouth. " _COO-EE!"_

Responding to Neville's look of absolute shock, Luna smiled. "Oh, don't worry. Bilbo's very friendly."

"I'm not afraid of Bilbo," Neville said, thinking that he would never be afraid of anything that Luna befriended, "What was that shout?"

"Oh, when daddy and I went to visit Australia, that's how they got each other's attention--our friend, Sam Dailey, and daddy, I mean."

A grunting noise from behind Neville made him nearly leap from his chair.

"Bilbo! That's not very polite!"

Nonetheless, Luna stood up and began to coddle the long-tusked boar.

"That's right, Bilbo. I've got a sandwich for you."

She took plate from Neville and placed it on the floor. The slobby snout of the porcine monster sniffed at the desultory sandwich, and then began to burrow in it.

Hoping that such feedings were a rarity in the Lovegood establishment, and also wondering about the sanitizing measures taken to the dishes afterward, Neville just shook his head. Standing up to make himself a sandwich sans peanut butter, he reflected that he was not eager to up his intake of dried pig saliva anytime soon, plus there was foot-and-mouth disease (was that rampant in pigs?) to consider.

"He's quite a nutter," Luna said suddenly, and Neville spun around.

"Really?" he asked, not knowing if she was talking to the pig about him or if she was talking to him about the pig.

He ought not have worried, for Luna was looking at him. "Yes," she mused, "Yesterday he was out digging for chestnuts in the backyard."

"Did he find any?"

Luna shook her head. "No. Just this."

She walked over to the kitchen sink, went on her knees, and pulled out a box that used to hold soap. This she gave to Neville.

He opened it, and was surprised.

It was a little wooden picture frame, decorated in delicate dried leaves and flowers, containing a picture of himself and Luna, which had been taken at the beginning of the summer. They were sitting, just the two of them, by the stream near Luna's house. Neville could have sworn that there had been other people on either side of them when it had been taken, but there they were, solely the two of them.

That had been the day he asked her to be his girlfriend, and she had accepted, in that passive but endearing way of hers.

"This...is what Bilbo found?" he asked with a smile, though he should have known better. Luna nodded, steadfast in her little story, not betraying herself in the slightest facial expression.

"Isn't it curious?" she suggested.

"Very much so," Neville said, and he kissed her.

She tasted strange, like something salty and deliciously savory at the same time, and he realized that she had just been eating a peanut-butter sandwich.

He decided that, at least on Luna's lips, the stuff did not taste as bad as it looked.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Brave Smile**

Mr. Weasley had discovered the Muggle Movie very early in his career of tinkering with Muggle Stuff, but they had not interested him until Hermione and Ron watched _Jaws_ together, and his son enthusiastically (but inaccurately) replicated the plot. Thus, his old discovery took on a new sheen, and he threw himself wholeheartedly into trying to fix the VCR he had found. Discreetly, there had been a box under the Christmas tree that year with _Happy Christmas, Arthur Weasley_ printed on it in Dumbledore-esque handwriting, and the present within had been nothing more than a DVD projector and a gift certificate to a movie store near the Ministry of Magic in London. Harry denied all claims that it was his idea, money, or talent put into the project.

Now, movie showings on Saturday Nights at The Burrow were the social hit of the season.

Neville and Luna always attended, of course, sitting somewhere in the obscure middle of the room, usually holding hands. They both paid scrupulous attention to the movie.

"I want to make a movie," Neville said listlessly one such evening as they left the 'theatre'.

Luna, as always, seemed rather surprised, but interested. "Do you suppose we could?"

Neville racked his brains, trying to find a reason not to, besides the fact that his imminent career in herbology was on the verge of blossoming.

"I don't have time right now," he said. "After all, it's so soon after the war. Everyone's still healing."

"Why not memorialize the healing?" Luna suggested.

Squinching his nose, Neville thought about it. Then, he audibly sighed, and he shook his head.

"No. I'm not creative. I wouldn't be any good at it."

She smiled, and Neville realized how brave a smile it was, and remembered why he loved her.

"My daddy has always said that one should keep an open mind."

...

Some time later that week, an owl delivered a package to Neville's home, and inside he found a video camera, along with a brief note:

_I just happened upon this, and thought you might be able to use it. In any case, I also sent you the January Quibbler, so if you would please look at the spreadsheet with your page and see if you like how the article is formatted, I'd like to know what you think of it. I will be sending our photographer over very soon to take your picture for the Author's headshot. Do you like the caption, 'Orange-Tinted Fireworms Threaten Unkempt Gardens'? And, do you know, my father has decided against getting another Porshriddle Skweizy anytime soon. Besides that, he wants you to continue your Herbology column as long as you can.  
_

_Love you an incredible lot._

_Luna  
_

Merlin, he loved her an incredible lot, too.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

. . x . . . X . . . x . . .

The film had to wait until after Luna graduated, because Neville could only see her on Hogsmeade weekends, and those were fewer and more far between than before the war. Death Eaters—those who were not at the final battle but were valiant enough to think that cooperating with the authorities was disgraceful—were out plotting various means of revenge. Though their numbers were limited, and though they had no natural leader to guide them, they had formed some kind of organized revenge team. Of course, Hogwarts was a prime target.

Luna's 7th year finally concluded, however, to both her and Neville's great delight, and they celebrated by having Neville move into his own flat, finally.

It was only then that they began to work on the project—sporadically at first, but with increasing passion as they got further imbued. Luna was the chief interviewer, since her objectiveness and kindly nature made her an easy person to talk to; Neville manned the camera.

The movie featured many people from many points of view, who had suffered a lot over the course of the war. George Weasley was the first one they interviewed. He talked about Fred in a stilted manner, trying to make jokes but not entirely succeeding, but he talked about how he intended to go on working with the Order of the Phoenix to round up rogue Death Eaters, and maybe re-start Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes.

Hermione was another one; she had been tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange and lived to tell about it, for one thing, but now her immune system was fragile and she kept getting colds. She had finished her education at Hogwarts, though, and now she was working on a fellowship as a trial lawyer.

Of course, Harry Potter could not be ignored. While plagued by the numbers lost in the Battle of Hogwarts, he got himself engaged to Ginny Weasley almost immediately after their victory, and he was excited to get over his past fame and glory, aiming to live a 'normal' life.

The work was done in late September, and they had a showing at the next Saturday Night at the Weasley's. It received tears and laughter alike, and Neville felt that people left the impromptu theatre feeling a little more joy and hope.

Luna agreed, and innocuously suggested that Neville would leave the theatre joyous enough to propose to someone.

He wondered later what she meant by _that._

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**In the Beginning  
**

Neville tended to move slower than most people. He saw a thousand private moments in the week following the Battle of Hogwarts: Harry and Ginny snogging each other silly in unobtrusive corners, Hermione sleeping with Ron on the Gryffindor common-room couch, even older people like Argus Filch and Irma Pince holding hands in the wrecked library, and Arthur and Molly Weasley in a fervent embrace over their dead son's body. As he felt that these intrusions were caused by the manipulations of fate, it occurred to him that he was meant to take away a lesson, somehow, from his blunders.

The question was, _what_ was the lesson?

Oh, no, he wasn't really _that_ dense. Every time he spotted Luna Lovegood, his stomach knotted; he knew that the crush he'd been developing since late last year had suddenly bloomed into something more perfect, more divine.

The thing was, did he want to _act_ on it? If he remained passive, would it blow over, like his long and puppy-dog-like affections for Hermione Granger?

With all the love he was exposed to, flagrantly tossed around in the aftermath of the Battle, he wanted to say _No! It's real! I'll act! I'm madly in love with the beautiful Loony Lovegood, and I don't care who knows it!_ However, his melancholy half, which was largely influenced by fear of rejection, whispered _Neville, you're a foolish boy, she'd never fall for you, you don't deserve her._

Though, as she sat beside him at dinner--house unity being abandoned for the remainder of the school year--chatting amiably about Nargles and her pet boar (named Bilbo, apparently), he allowed himself to dream.

He dreamed as he had all through the school year, that when the end of the war came, she would be his. Their work together in the D.A. only strengthened his desire to be closer to her, and, by some happy accident, they got to see more and more of each other as the year passed.

Snape had an unfortunate start as headmaster, and, at the beginning of term, found himself with a stack of teacher resignations and therefore short-handed of staff. The result was that he mixed up the schedules, combining some of the sixth and seventh year classes, and re-arranging the timetables, resulting in that Gryffindors had classes with Ravenclaws more often than Slytherins. Neville found these new arrangements just fine; he now got to be in some classes with Luna, even though they were different years.

At his suggestion, she agreed to study with him for these classes, her reasoning being that she could learn to see a new point of view from him. Most of their study sessions, ironically, were spent the opposite way; Luna jabbered on about her magical animals and fantastic beasts and where to find them, and Neville simply listened, entranced by her vast knowledge and beauty.

He would have given a lot to have a chance to try each other out in a romantic relationship, but was certain that he would never be worthy of her good opinion.

Well, seeing as Aphrodite took pity on him, his wistful Someday came a lot sooner than he expected.

. . . x . . .

Exactly seven days after the Battle, Luna was sitting at breakfast, looking perfectly ordinary and complacent.

"I must remember to pick up the mess those Amorwranglers left," she mused, spreading butter on her toast, and Neville searched in his memory banks for any previous mentions of an 'amorwrangler'. He could not remember Luna talking about it before, and, as he tried, he could not remember what it was.

"What did they do?" he asked, puzzled.

She merely smiled serenely.

"I do believe they've made your mind rather a terrible jumble. I suppose, since they've been at it for so long, you want to ask me out? It'd help to tidy things up a bit in your head."

He closed his mouth tight, and bit on his porridge-spoon.

"Wait," he mumbled with a grimace, removing the spoon from his mouth and wiping it with his napkin (as his grandmum always taught him to do). "You...I want to ask you out?"

Her eyebrows seemed to rise just millimeters higher, and she turned her head.

"I could be wrong, of course, but that's what I thought was infecting you."

He was stunned.

"Luna," he managed, "I...I _do_ want to ask you out, if you'll have me?"

She shrugged. "That's a silly question. Of course I'll have you."

So saying, she took his clammy hand, and patted it gently.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Uncertainty  
**

Their relationship was chaste and timid from the upstart, but still fulfilling. Keeping it quiet for a few months, they learned more about each other and, certainly in Neville's case, grew fonder of one another.

Of course, Luna had to finish school, but it was easy to put their relationship on hold. Neville didn't have the guts to work on his prospects anywhere else, nor did he have the interest in doing so. Luna similarly had absolutely nobody who desired her, and she said she desired no one but him, anyhow.

He said that if she found someone else, she could pursue them without guilt, but she just smiled and said she'd wait. Luna, being a woman of her word, did exactly that.

After graduating from Hogwarts, a few weeks later than scheduled due to that pesky little delay called _The Battle of Hogwarts_ , Neville found that his life was fairly stable. At his grandmum's gentle nudging, he moved out of her home, got his own flat, and started an apprenticeship with Pomona Sprout. (She had been one of the ones who resigned when Snape started at Hogwarts, and, as a credited Herbologist, she started her own business, and took on Neville as an apprentice.

He kept his flat in immaculate order, and he often invited friends to tea. His favorite person to invite was Luna Lovegood--once she herself graduated, of course--if only because they were dating.

She had helped him choose the place in the summer before her 7th year, a Ministry-approved Magical Housing Situation. The proprietor was a crotchety old witch who smiled when Luna addressed her about the Ticking Trompers that supposedly dwelt in the fine grand-dame's floorboards. It was also with Luna's assistance that Neville moved into his new lodgings.

He felt very proud of his new establishment, and had made a list of all the people he wanted to invite over to visit. Though, when he had a free moment to take a caller, he usually could not find the list, so he ended up not asking many people at all, at least not until Luna graduated.

This was not a bad arrangement, once she was home for good from Hogwarts, because, when he managed to get in contact with her, she was almost always was 'not free, but willing to come over anyhow' and she nearly always brought her work along.

On one such occasion, she was making greeting cards when he summoned her, and she just scooped them into her apron and brought them through the Floo.

"They're Congratulations cards," she explained as she dropped her materials in a disorganized heap on Neville's dining table. While he valued order, he was still able to appreciate her artsy sort of sloppiness. Whatever she touched, whether it was her hair, or her handwriting, or her crafts, she always achieved a sort of Bohemian beauty.

Neville touched a string of spider-web beads that Luna had attached to one card. It was arranged in a spiraled heart pattern that he knew was the ancient Sumerian symbol for love, longetivity, and prosperity.

"That's lovely," he said, fondly placing the otherwise blank card back on the table. "Congratulations for what?"

"For someone's engagement," she explained in her placid manner, and enchanted a pair of scissors to cut out a delicate lace design from some paper while she folded another card.

Neville sat down next to her. "Can I help?" he asked. "I've not got the best taste when it comes to art, but if you tell me what to do…"

Without raising her head, Luna nodded. "Pass me the pink paper, if you would?"

He squinted at the paper before him, and finally passed a few sheets to her.

As she received them, her perpetually surprised expression became even more astonished. "You're color-blind."

"No, I'm not," he pleaded.

"You passed me light green paper when I asked for pink. You are color-blind."

Without another word, she went back to painting a bouquet of green—no, pink!—flowers on the front of a card.

The revelation, though not something welcome to Neville, seemed to open up a new world for him. No wonder he was so bad at potions, that being an art very much based on colors, no wonder he had trouble discerning stunners from the death curse, no wonder he could not tell the difference between the wrappers of puking pastilles and dysentery delicacies! His _eyes_ were the problem, _not_ his abilities. The idea warmed his heart, giving him a surge of self-confidence.

Out of gratitude, he gently wound his arms around her and kissed her, whispering his thanks in her ear, and they became so distracted with each other that neither noticed when Luna dropped the card she had been working on and it landed on the floor.

Later, once she had gathered up her work and left, he found it when he was sweeping and discovered, to his shock, that the card was made out to congratulate the engagement of one Neville Longbottom and one Luna Lovegood.

A subtle hint, much?

. . . x . . .

More often than not, Neville felt out-of-place and awkward, not least of all after he realized that Luna had matrimony in mind. Was it his job to propose to her, or did she intend to propose to him? He waited for a week for some cue from her, but received none.

Maybe she did not want to marry him at all, maybe that little card was something she had written to help her decide if she was really in love with him. He imagined her writing it, in her absentminded way, then looking at it, and then cringing in disgust. _Marry Neville? Ew!_ he contemplated her thinking, and he got very depressed at the idea.

When he saw her next, he thrust a bunch of bonny-blue wildflowers into her gentle hands, which were dingy with dried paste and ink. Despite his doubts, he still went to her house, and still had her over, because he knew he was thoroughly in love with her, and he did not want to lose her sooner than was avoidable.

"You're unhappy," Luna observed, penetrating his soul despite the fact that he was trying very hard to hide his feelings. They had finished their usual greeting of one another, and now had settled at the kitchen table, where the latest _Quibbler_ spreadsheets were arranged for review and examination.

While appreciating how she knew him so well, Neville was a tad irked that he was so transparent. "Why do you think so?"

Her eyes met his unblinkingly. "The last time you brought me flowers was when you had been to see your parents beforehand. You were trying very hard to be cheerful, same as now."

She did not ask what was wrong, of course; she waited for him to explain.

Settling back in his chair, Neville crossed his arms and braced himself.

"I guess I'd rather not talk about it," he muttered, feeling a coward, but he was terrified.

In a movement no more noticeable than a slight breeze, Luna ruffled his hair.

"When you don't feel so scared of it, I wouldn't mind listening," she said softly.

Stiff, he took his hand and wrapped it around hers. "I love you," he said simply.

"I love you too. Are you all right now?"

 _She knew!_ Neville thought in awe. He realized that he ought not be surprised to know it.

"Yeah, I'm all right."

So it was conveyed to him that it was _his job_ , not hers.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Soft  
**

Now that Neville knew what Luna wanted, he had to think about how he would propose. It wasn't as though such a feat could be done anytime, anywhere. It was a proposal to _Luna_. The beautiful creature who had so gently allowed the basest of mortals (him) to enter her life. She deserved more than an off-the-rack 'oi! Will you marry me?' (which was essentially how Ronald went about his proposal to Hermione early that summer), even if their romance was such that she generally knew what to expect.

Then, there was the tinge of hope that he would indeed take her by surprise. Isn't that a universal feature of the enamored? So, he began to think about how he might best go about the task, while he still kept to her side as much as possible, spending all of his leisure time with her. Such made him happy.

One afternoon, as the last vestiges of summer were being swept away with the warm colors of crackling leaves, they built a tent in Luna's yard, following a childish whimsy. Neville, at his lady's instruction, tied a rope between two trees, and they draped an old bedsheet over it, anchoring its corners with sticks and scraping the dry dirt free of pine needles and moss. After laying down thick woolen blankets underneath, they kicked off their shoes and lay in the tent's shade, Luna reading a novel upside-down and Neville fixing his straw out-doors hat. (He had inadvertently sat on it earlier that week.)

As the afternoon glow turned to dark, Luna caught some fireflies and put them in a jar. She also brought out some sandwiches, pickled gherkins, and dirigible wine for their dinner. Neville gathered a few twigs and made a tiny little fire, just enough to warm their hands and cast a cheerful light.

After some time, the fire died out because both Neville and Luna had become rather drowsy. In fact, Luna had quite fallen asleep, and Neville was not far from it. Snuggled in the deep, warm blankets, close enough to Luna that he could hear her slow breathing, he admired the woman he had caught and idly wondered, _why_ him? She could do so much better than the nerdy, awkward boy that he was.

They had not done anything sexual, that evening or any other, and Neville was fine with that. He was scared to, quite honestly; she was so fragile, so perfect, like a Dresden china shepardess, and he was afraid that touching her too harshly would crack her. Not only that, but he was entirely inexperienced in that arena himself, so he was even more terrified of doing something to hurt her.

Something else that hindered him in their relationship was his inconsistent amount of confidence. At some times, he was positively brimming, and was able to take the initiative to kiss her on his own prompting. However, there was that perpetual ghost of his younger self that plagued him, weakened him, and made him feel no more than a babbling idiot. Being with Luna limited the presence of this self-loathing, unfortunate fool of a coward that dwelt within Neville, but not always. Sometimes, as he gazed at her in awe, he felt that his inherent caitiff overwhelmed him.

He wished he could abolish this inner wimp, as he admired his sleeping beauty. Flowers that he had entwined in her hair that morning were still there, fresh and beautiful still because he had charmed them to last. Their fragrance still lingered, and he could smell them when the night breeze decided to enter their open-ended shelter.

Pressing closer to her, he also wished that he were more attractive. For years, he had envied Draco Malfoy's fine coloring, facial structure, and epitomical physique. Neville was all too painfully aware of his fleshiness; his tummy would not disappear no matter how much coaxing. It took more than words for Luna to assure him that it did not matter, and still he was unhappy that he did not match her by half in looks. Too often, he compared their partnership to that of Beauty and the Beast.

He thought about that, and rolled over a bit to stare at the paunchy bedsheet that comprised the top of the tent. There was a hole through which moonlight shone placidly. Neville raised his hand and stroked the circumference of the hole, trying to distinguish the silken texture of the rays from the smooth, worn-out sheet. His eyes drifted to Luna, and he noticed that a snatch of her hair was illuminated by the eerie light.

He touched that lovely featured lock, caressing it with the gentleness of a doe nuzzling its fawn, and rested his cheek against hers.

The perfume of dew and new morning caught his nostrils, and he realized that it was no longer very late, but instead very early. He had been drifting in and out of sleep, but now was his last chance to get some real shut-eye in before the sun rose. While the sun's rays had not yet pierced the sky, everything seemed lighter already. Timid, he touched her vanilla-ice-cream skin at the shoulder, partially exposed by her robe's disarrangement, which was wrought by sleep.

She awakened, looked initially surprised, then smiled. Neville was quite taken aback; he had not meant to rouse her.

"Sorry," he said, quiet and abashed.

"It's all right," she mumbled, complacent, "I like waking up and seeing you."

With that, she nestled herself against his chest and closed her lids.

He thought gratefully that while dreams may be beautiful, the only way one could tell if they were real is to feel if they were also soft.

 _This can be mine_ , he acknowledged as he closed his eyes, _if I can only claim it._

The project was one that he resolved to expedite.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Wrackspurts  
**

Neville entered the kitchen one morning--he was so much In and Out of the Lovegood household that there was no need to floo ahead or anything--to find Luna sitting at the table, reading an upside-down book.

"Hello, Neville" she said, complacently turning a page without bothering looking at him, "I just am making tea. The kettle will be whistling in a moment. Could you bring it here?"

She was infallibly right, of course. She could hear the bubbling of the water, for she liked to wear the audible sensitivity charms that she and her father used when hunting for strange animals and plants.

Neville felt awkward today; he had discovered whilst dressing that he had outgrown yet another size of trousers. As a result of the self-deprecation that followed, he had not the courage to embrace her with fervor, so he merely kissed her cheekbone.

"Of course," he said with a gray smile.

The whistle started to blow on the teapot, so he carefully wrapped a pot-holder around the handle and carried it to the table.

While his attention had been thusly diverted, Luna had whipped out a pair of Spectrespecs and was regarding him avidly.

"Get some the tin of Wiggle Biscuits from the cupboard. You've got the Wrackspurts again," she noted with the clinical objectivity of a healer.

He wondered whether she remembered that he was an absolute sucker for Wiggle Biscuits. Without a comment, he went to the cupboard, removed the tin, and placed it on the table.

"Oh, no, I oughtn't have any," he said when she opened it, took one, and nudged it towards him. "I just realized today, I've put on near two stone since the war ended."

She did not withdraw them, instead going back to reading the book, which Neville noticed was called _Stephen Foster: Folk-Song Writer, Fraud, or Avant-Garde Freud?_ He smiled, wistfully appreciative of Luna's eclectic taste. He was the first to acknowledge that he probably would not understand a single bloody word of the book.

Indeed, he realized as he watched her read, she really was so very intelligent, so very beautiful, so very graceful. How come she let such a very dull, such a very unattractive, such a very clumsy oaf as _he_ into her life? It was a very humbling thing, he thought, to look at her and know that she had accepted him.

He felt her eyes on him, and he looked at her, and he saw that she was shaking her head, a prim smile gracing her lips.

"What?" he asked, sensing that she was somehow particularly amused.

Looking back at her book, she placidly suggested, "I should think that the little insects are making you very silly. Didn't you ever hear about that colony of Buddhist monks in India who were so affected by Wrackspurts that they didn't eat anything until they starved to death?"

Neville huffed, interpreting that this was her strange way of convincing him that his new diet was unnecessary.

"I'm far from starving to death, Luna. Please, don't interfere."

She studied him again.

"There is another way to disappear the Wrackspurts, besides eating something with a significant amount of sugar," she said softly, "But I don't know if you'll like it."

"Oh?" Neville asked, surprised. She had never volunteered such information.

"Yes, do pay attention."

She stood and walked over to him, placing her delicate hand on his broad shoulder.

"Close your eyes. It shan't work if you don't."

He complied.

"You might feel something strange, but don't be afraid."

He waited, and then he did feel something strange: a kiss at the tip of his ear, as gentle as a butterfly landing on his favorite morning-glory vine. Then he felt another one, gracing his cheekbone. This was followed by another, along with a little sigh at his left temple.

Incredibly nervy, he felt her body move in front of him, and he appreciated the next kiss that landed on the tip of his nose.

"I do believe they're going away," Luna assessed in her dreamy manner, and before he could anticipate her next action, she muttered, "Oh, there's a particularly _stubborn_ one. Get along, little Wrackspurt, stop bothering my Neville," and she leaped into his lap, drawing her arms around his neck and pressing her warm lips into his.

Somewhat stunned by her boldness, his eyes blinked open. She was expecting that; her eyes met his immediately, and were large and knowing.

"Are you cured, do you suppose?" she asked in her most polite manner. For a moment he did not understand, and thus he almost said the wrong thing, but he had come to learn her language, and therefore he carefully replied, after a brief moment:

"No. I think you've uncovered an entire nest of Wrackspurts, actually."

Her eyes lit up. "You're quite right. My initial screening was wrong. You'll need much more of a cure than I originally thought."

So saying, she leaned close to him again, and gave him such a cure that Neville was certain she got rid of every Wrackspurt in that kitchen.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Snap Peas  
**

The prospect of the engagement is one that settled heavily on Neville's mind, and particularly in his pocket. For a week, he had kept the little blue velvet box somewhere on his person, wanting, wiling, and waiting to 'pop the question'. However, there had never been the proper amounts of courage in his gut and romance in the air for him to do so. He did not want it to be just _any_ proposal, after all. It was for _Luna._

One afternoon, he decided enough was enough--he was tired of procrastinating the delicate task. Partially spurred to action since Pomona Sprout, his boss, had been humming all day because her niece was having a baby, he took advantage of her reward of a half-day off by immediately Flooing to the Lovegood home.

Preparations for beef stew were haphazardly laid out on the kitchen counter: chopped vegetable marrow, carrots, cabbage, and a large side of beef, all covered in a stasis charm to keep flies off and arranged in absolutely no order whatsoever.

 _Luna's doing, of course_ , Neville saw with a smile. Judging by the quantity of food and the large pot laid out on the sideboard, it was fairly clear that he was invited to dinner; when Luna cooked for just her father and herself, she did not cook nearly such an amount. While he felt uncomfortable at the knowledge that she saw it necessary to prepare so much--did she expect that he would _really_ eat all that?--he realized that, yes, probably he would, especially with Luna's silent but insistent ladling into his bowl, and he commended her foresight. Beef stew, as he knew she must know, _was_ his favorite, after all.

His thumb fingered the blue box in his pocket again, and he began to practice the lines he had memorized for the occasion. This, while wondering if Luna-- _if_ she agreed to marry him, because he still was nervous that she was refused--would mind making beef stew every week for him. Her cooking was not exceptional, and often times she liked to experiment with weird dishes, but when she set her mind to cooking good, decent English food, she did a fine job.

"Do you have a hole in your pocket? Is it a new fashion trend?"

Neville spun around, startled enough to reveal his jittery-ness. "Oh, no, I don't," he said, withdrawing his hand hastily and deciding that _today isn't the day either._

Luna stood in the doorway, smiling and flushed, with an apron full of snap-peas, but strangely covered in dust and bits of dried leaves. She appeared, as Neville judged her, as pretty as a Dresden milkmaid, sans a bonnet.

"Oh, that's good. One never knows with fashions; I suppose that one would be highly impractical if one isn't in the habit of carrying a purse. But then, fashions are not known to be practical. My daddy once told me that, in his youth, people liked to wear spider-web scarves and hats. Many caught cold in the winter without proper attire."

So saying, Luna trotted into the kitchen to the basin, dumped half of her load into a copper colander, and requested, "Do you mind untying my apron?"

All too eager, Neville nodded and ambled to her side, clumsily untying the loose knot and letting the ties fall to her sides.

"Thank you very much," Luna said, wrapping up the remainder of the snap peas in it and putting the bundle on the counter. "I suppose, since you're here, you could help me with something I was about to do?"

"As long as it isn't too outrageous."

She seemed amused. "Outrageous, Neville? Am I known to be outrageous?"

Awkward in his unwillingness to admit the truth, he laughed a great belly laugh in spite of himself. As he did, Luna wrapped her arms around him, as though to absorb the vibrations. Tenderly, he returned the embrace, which they shared for a brief moment before Luna unwound herself and turned her attention to the snap peas. Gathering the bundle of snap-peas and a little pincushion from the counter, she nestled them in the crook of her arm and attached her large, luminous eyes upon Neville.

"I need to pin one of these above the doorway of every room in the house," she stated cryptically.

"May I ask why?" Neville asked, seeing that he would probably be helping her by pinning them; he was a good head higher than his petite near-fiance.

She waved away the question with the elusive non-answer, "It's to protect." With that, she stepped lightly to the door she had just entered. "Lift me, please?"

"Can't I just do it?"

She shook her lovely, delicate head. "It has to be done by my hands."

"Oh." This was not much of a reply, certainly, but Neville assumed that it was some sort of charm.

Unasking, he stepped up behind the lovely young lady and put his arms around her neat little waist. Unfortunately, his leverage was far from exemplary--even though she was very light, he could not lift her more than a few feet off the ground--and he cursed himself for not having been in the Quidditch crowd.

"Don't berate yourself," she said placidly, "If you were an ape who spent his days swinging from trees, I should be disappointed. Put me on your shoulder, maybe?"

This sounded easier to Neville, and he knealt so that she could seat herself in such a manner. He was impressed that she did not straddle his neck like a little child, but instead rode 'side-saddle'--though, honestly, he thought he would maintain better balance if her weight were more evenly distributed, but she looked so elegant and composed that he dared not complain.

"What kind of protection charm is it?" he finally got the gumption to ask, perhaps five snap-peas from the first.

"A protection of the future," she replied, "I rather like to know what's going to happen."

He carried her around the house in such a manner, and she pinned one little snap-pea on top of each doorjamb, making sure to duck her head as he carried her to the next room. Afterward, she supposed she might start to make dinner, and insisted that he sit and tell her all about his day and inform her about how he manged to get a half-day holiday from his apprentice duties.

Then she served him his dinner, and Xenophilius was too busy working on the latest edition to eat until later, and Neville quite simply gorged himself (to his immense gastronomic satisfaction), and since Luna was not one of the sort who cared about cleaning-up immediately, she leaned against his shoulder and twined her arm around his neck, and he sleepily mused that he did indeed need to try and ask her to marry him, soon. Such bliss was something he was interested in having forever.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

_Explanation of the snap-pea thing: I read once while doing research that if a woman hangs pea pods above one's doorjambs would ensure that the first unmarried man to walk beneath that pea pod would be the woman's future husband. So basically, in hanging the pea pods, Luna was ingeniously ensuring that Neville would marry her, if only because she made sure that he walked under it as soon as it was hung, over and over again all around her house! I also think it was emblematic of carrying the bride over the threshold._

**Memories  
**

A week after the failed proposal, Neville again showed up at the Lovegood's, as usual. Luna, being in what she termed a 'catty mood', was curled on the couch like a feline, and, when Neville entered, she smiled and mewed softly.

"Hullo," he said, settling himself heavily down next to her, just a trifle too far away to be intimate. To remedy this fact, Luna unfurled herself and turned around to lay her head in his lap.

"Neville," she said dreamily, and drew her arms around his generous waist to embrace him.

He thought it rather appropriate of her to call such times 'catty moods', but he would have thought it even more appropriate to title them 'kitty moods', because she had none of the sharp edge or reserve that the word _cat_ entailed.

Playing to her whim, his hand found the nape of her neck and scratched it.

She sighed in contentment, leaning her silken head against his belly, and he wondered anew what in the world made such a beautiful girl as her like _him_ so much. That seemed to be his predominant emotion whenever he was around her.

At once, she flipped herself over, so that she lay on her back instead of her tummy, and she looked up quizzically into his lovelorn eyes.

"Do you know when I first fell in love with you?"

Astonished at how he always managed to read his thoughts to some degree, he replied in the negative, smiling faintly.

"Well, it was the night you saved me."

He could not remember, and his expression showed it.

"In the Department of Mysteries, if you forgot."

"Oh!"

He thought about it for a moment; she had triggered a memory, hazy at first, that grew more distinct as he thought about it.

"We had all sent _Reductos_ at the prophecy shelves, and they were toppling all around us," Luna elaborated with a detached air, as though reciting an anecdote about going fishing for Wuddle-Widdle Guppies. (Neville made such a comparison because he distinctly remembered such a description from that past Saturday.) "I was looking up, because I thought the scene was rather beautiful, in a tragic way, like a thousand shooting stars. I believe I was wondering about meteors and how fast they roll from the sky, you know, because all spherical things sort-of roll when they're flying through the air."

She gestured, rolling her hand in a circular motion.

"So I was standing there, admiring it, and you took my hand and yanked me away. I suppose the whole incident would be unremarkable to you, come to think of it. You were just being sensible, as usual."

Leaving the words unsaid _But it meant a lot to me_ , Neville comprehended her meaning. It was true; he had never given the thing another thought, and, as it was, he could not precisely remember if he _had_ done what she said he did. He supposed she was right, because it sounded just like Luna to be caught up with the aesthetics and physics of a life-and-death situation, and it occurred to him that maybe one of the old Greek poet/philosopher/physicists (like Aristotle) would have thought about it in a similar way as she did.

Of course, lack of concern for the bodily self was a prominent trait of Luna's, he recognized, and he liked to think that he had enough worldly concern to make supply them both.

If, that is, he ever got around to bloody _proposing._

"So," Neville said softly, "That's when you fell in love with me?" He wished he had thought more of the incident at the time, taken note of how she looked, how she acted, or even just how her hand felt when he drew her from the scene.

"Quite. It was pleasant to realize, actually, except for the fact that we were fighting for our lives. For a bit, I thought I should never get the chance to let you know, and I was most perplexed. It was very good for my strained nerves when someone threw me through the air and knocked me on the head. I don't think they realized they had done me a favor."

She was entirely serious, he could tell, but her perfect blend of understatement and unexpected optimism was too amusing.

"Do you know how funny you are, sometimes?" he said, grinning and chuckling softly."I almost think you _try_ to talk like Dumbledore."

"Oh, I don't know," Luna said with a soft smile, but, unlike the dead headmaster, her eyes never twinkled mischievously. "I was always a great fan of Dumbledore, and I rather liked the way he spoke, but then I found out that he had a resident Ahwa-Tagu-Siam Bug in his ear that had been there for decades."

"And what does the Ahwa-Tagu-Siam Bug do?" Neville asked kindly.

"It manipulates. When it's lodged itself in one's ear, it tells one to do things like serve lemon-drops laced with Veritaserum, talk idly about nothing but socks to make people think they're barmy, and things like that. The bug is really quite clever at divert peoples' attention from the fact that he's using them for his own purposes. That's all, really; if one doesn't pay any attention to it, it goes away."

She paused.

"I'm afraid that Dumbledore's never did, I think."

Neville, though he had read bits of Rita Skeeter's book same as the best of men, was a bit scandalized at this pronouncement, which basically intimated that Dumbledore was, at heart, corrupt. This was almost heresy in the post-war world.

"Did you see the Ahwa-Tagu-Siam Bug?" he asked, "With your Spectrespecs? How do you know Dumbledore had it?"

With a sad shaking of the head, Luna replied crisply, "I just can tell things about people. For instance," she added, more gently, "I don't think you know when you fell in love with me."

This pronouncement shocked Neville for the briefest of moments, before he realized sadly that she was right. He had an inkling that he already _was_ in love with her several times when he got beet-faced at D.A. meetings, but there had never been a definitive _OH MY GOSH, I'M IN LOVE WITH HER!_ moment.

He lamented it, but did not focus on it much longer, because Luna decided he had got Wrackspurts again and figured that she ought to give him a good dose of 'curation'.

Snogging Luna was a wonderful 'curation.'

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Second Attempt  
**

Taking initiative that he usually eschewed, Neville decided again that _today is the day!_ and asked Luna out on a date, a veritable rarity in his life.

She Flooed to his apartment and emerged wearing a set of robes that he recognized as being new; in fact, due to the little bits of string poking from a few seams, he could tell it was home-made.

"I like your new robes," he commented kindly. They were contrived from voluminous, bohemian patchwork material, and it struck him that the patterns of the multicolored squares were rather Eastern in general.

"Oh, thank you, but they're quite old," she replied complacently, and began pointing out different parts. "These bits in red, see, are from the party dress my mummy made for me when I was three. The silver-blue bits are made from her old dressing-gown. The metallic Gouldglub color is from a rather hideous purse someone gave me once for my birthday. Things like that. So really, this outfit, though I did make it this morning, is rather made up of odds-and-ends that I had no need for anymore. Everything has some amount of value, you know, even things that you think don't."

Turning a bit rouge with the beauty of her speech, Neville just smiled and shook his head, gently putting his arm around her waist and flicking off a few silken threads that needlessly peeked from the edges of the squares.

"Well, you're spiffing in it."

"Thank you. You look quite nice, too."

He sucked in a breath (his dress pants were too tight) and put his free hand in his pocket to feel the velvet blue box. Determination did not elude him, and he took a step forward. Of course, he stumbled slightly, because Luna wasn't paying attention and therefore was standing solidly.

"Come on, let's go," he said quietly, seriously, and with an innocent flounce of the skirt, she skipped back towards the Floo, his hand in hers.

. . . x . . .

They were at the restaurant in Soho that he thought she would like, a rather new-ageish Vegetarian place that had (thank goodness!) at least a limited selection of meat dishes as well.

As they waited for their food, sipping clear ice water and nibbling on pita chips, a very dark presence walked past, following the waitress.

"Snape!" whispered Neville in horror, watching the dour man's retreating form in shock. The startlement he experienced was almost enough to make him wet himself.

"Oh, I forgot, you don't like him much," Luna said comfortably, her leg extending under the Indian silk tablecloth just enough so that her foot nudged Neville's in a comforting sort of way.

"What's he _doing_ here?" asked Neville, feeling a bit less paranoid at Luna's touch but still trembling a little. He had known Snape somehow--by a miracle, it was said--survived the massive attack of Nagini, but up until now, the two men had on no occasion met.

"Probably eating dinner. It looks like he's a regular," Luna observed, watching as Snape seated himself heavily at a single table across the restaurant and numbly began eating the pita and humuus placed before him. "I wonder if he gets indigestion from meat, like I do? That's rather funny; I've always thought him to be rather a carnivore, haven't you?"

Thinking of Snape with the scientific detachment of a paleontologist marveling at a dinosaur did _not_ help Neville in the least. As he felt sweat rising on his brow just to _think_ about Snape being in the same room, however far away, Neville decided:

"Erm, Luna, I'll be in the loo."

Thusly he bolted.

. . . x . . .

When he finally had calmed down long enough to leave the bathroom, Neville did so, but found their table abandoned, his oh-so-British steak-and-kidney pie steaming profusely, and Luna's wilted-looking vegetables and samosas similarly affected. Looking around, he saw a blonde head bobbing kindly across the room, facing his old hawk-faced Potions Professor. At--by some unwanted chance of fate--meeting Snape's eye, the ex-spy qwirked an eyebrow and gravely inclined his head in greeting.

Luna herself turned her head, smiled at Neville, patted Snape's arm gently (as both he and Neville grimaced) and skipped back to her near-fiance's side.

"Oh, I hope you don't mind, Neville, but I had to ask if he had a case of Leguphilia, and he said no, he just had problems with his blood-pressure, and his healer encouraged him to stop eating meat and things. He thought the idea of him having Leguphilia quite amusing, actually." She seated herself in her chair and scooted it as close to Neville as possible, so that they were hip-to-hip, and moved her plate accordingly. More quiet, she added, "Wrackspurts are practically crawling all over him. I don't know how he manages it. I told him I'd send a key-fob to help ward himself from them."

Knowing by now that in Luna's language, this meant _he looks really depressed, and I'm very worried about him,_ and at such prompting Neville took a moment to re-evaluate the great fear of his childhood.

The man seemed truly broken, even from afar. Eyes that once glittered with malice now were sunken and dulled with apathy. His shoulders, which in the role of Professor role maintained an almost ballerina-like broadness, drooped as he hunched over his ice water, and he absently was chewing on his thumb cuticle.

Neville's eyes turned to meet Luna's, and he saw extreme pity and compassion in them. And then he realized, there were tears there, too.

"Let's see if we can take our food to-go, perhaps?" Neville asked softly, startled at the emotion in her eyes--something so completely foreign to her being that it scared him.

All of a sudden resolute, Luna shook her head and speared her asparagus.

"Oh, that's out of the question," she said, her voice just slightly less melodic than usual, "Don't you know, that would be about the most hurtful thing we could do this minute?"

They ate their dinner, Luna talking much more animatedly than usual, and quite loudly indeed. Her eyes, too, occasionally darted to the back corner of the restaurant as if to register the progress of their old teacher.

Neville covertly followed her gaze a few times, too. Once he had tucked into his dinner, Snape seemed a tad more cheerful, and even ventured to smile vaguely (what a hideous sight, Neville thought!) while immersed in a Brown study of the stucco wall.

He was done before them, and left before them, but Luna did catch his eye as he paid the waitress, and he nodded in their direction in wordless reply.

Once he was gone, Luna laid her head on Neville's shoulder, and sighed deeply.

"Oh, what a poor man!" she whispered. "No one but the people at the Battle know what a hero he was. No one cared whether he lived or died. No one loved him."

In response, Neville wrapped his arm around her waist and held her close to him. Just touching her seemed to ease the pain of empathy she was experiencing.

"I apologize; I wouldn't be so terribly emotional if it wasn't for the fact that my Aunt Florence is coming to visit."

Surprised, Neville turned his head and squinted at her. "I didn't know you had an Aunt!"

His expression of bewilderment apparently chased any Wrackspurts she had about her away, for she giggled softly on his shoulder.

 _Well, tonight is_ NOT _the night_ , Neville thought petulantly, mentally cursing Snape for making him weak-kneed and vulnerable. _We're not coming back to this restaurant, I should think, either._

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Saturday  
**

The next morning--for Neville stayed over that night, and they both fell asleep curled up next to each other on the sofa in front of the fireplace--Luna and Neville were walking from Luna's backyard to the point of the nearby cliff. The sea breeze was strong during this post-breakfast stroll at roughly seven in the morning, and both of them were well-bundled for the occasion.

Luna, sprightly and waif-like, skipped ahead, her arms outstretched and dancing in the wind like the limbs of a pale beech tree. With his usual stability, Neville trudged behind, feeling the unpleasant burn in his calves from the long upward slope of their path. Regarding her with the anxiousness of a child playing with his kite on a gusty afternoon, he would call for her whenever she disappeared from his sight. In a moment, she would pleasantly bound gracefully back to his side, reporting on how she was just stopped to converse with a stray squirrel or examine a particularly lethal-looking toadstool.

It seemed inevitable that she would trip and fall and crack her skull open, Neville felt, and as much as he realized that he was acting as crotchety and worrisome as his grandmum, he could not stop feeling panicked when she left his sight.

As they got closer to the point of the cliff, the mist off the ocean rose, heavy and ominous.

"Keep by me, would you?" he remarked a bit petulantly as his darling made as if to leap into the mire of fog.

"Oh, but they're only clouds, you know," she remarked reassuringly, clearly mistaking his discomfiture for concern after his own safety more than hers. "Nothing to be afraid of. I was rather hoping to find a Rain Fairy somewhere before we got down to the beach."

"Never mind the Rain Fairies. Do stay with me."

Realizing that her interpretation of his concern was initially wrong, she comfortably slowed her pace and slipped her arm into the crook of his.

"I shall, always," she said, her tone innocuous, but Neville felt the intensity in her words. His fingers squirmed into his pocket, seeing the glorious opening for which he had been waiting. . .

_. . . But dammit all man, you forgot the bloody ring!_

For, indeed, he was wearing a pair of Xenophilius' old trousers and not the dress ones he had worn the night previously; _they_ were folded neatly and nestled in the corner of the couch, guarding the treasure he had bestowed to them.

Feeling Wrackspurts flying to him like a magnet, all he could do was tighten his hold on Luna's arm as they continued to pursue their walk.

. . . x . . .

"I love November; it's the time when all the beetles and other squirmy things have gone to sleep in their deepest burrows, the rabbits and porcupines and things all are growing their winter coats, and the trees are liberated of the burden of their leaves," Luna pronounced as they reached the tip of the cliff. Idly, she looked down into the abyss, looking more puzzled than Ronald Weasley did while examining tea leaves.

"Let's Disapparate to the ground, shall we?" Neville suggested, feeling the twinges of vertigo in the back of his retinas, and, gently, Luna grasped his hand and obliged.

They appeared on the soulless beach, which looked as ominous and miserable in the luminous light as the train of the Gray Lady's dress, or, perhaps more aptly, the edges of the river Styx.

However, even with the overcast hue, a few trails of foot-prints crossed the sand, obliviously criss-crossing, looping, and cutting across each other.

Reviewing the previous comment of Luna's, to which he felt he had replied inadequately, Neville tried to sentimentalize as they began their trek along the mark left by the high-tide.

"Autumn is a beautiful season," he attempted, "The leaves that fall are red and gold, like Gryffindor colors."

"That's very pretty," Luna replied politely, but, suddenly, she broke away and trotted to the clearest trail of footprints in the sand.

"To walk in a stranger's footsteps--one can do that literally, you know, on the beach like this. Did you ever realize that?"

Shaking his head at her application of philosophical notions to daily life, Neville followed her and watched.

The footprints in question were large, probably from a man in Muggle trainers.

"It would seem that he was alternately jogging an walking," Luna observed with her most detached air. Then, with the look of a curious filly nuzzling at a new hay bale in her crib, she put one foot in that of the print, and stretched beyond her usual stride to fill the next one with her other foot.

Amused, Neville watched, accompanying her as she tried to keep up with the person whose history she traced. Finally, she tired of this exercise, and stepped out of the trail. "Of course, it wasn't the same as it was for _him_ ," she said, "because I suppose he is much taller and much faster than I. Come!"

She took his arm and eagerly led him to a place that had been cleansed free of imprints from the high-tide, but that had no footprints from wayfarers since.

"Let's make our own prints, and perhaps some people will follow them later," she suggested with an air of romanticism that won Neville's heart.

Shyly taking her hand, he acquiesced, and, together, they made two parallel trails of prints across the beach.

. . . x . . .

Once they were too cold, they Disapparated back to Luna's cozy kitchen, only to find that Xeno had left the door open and, consequently, a lot of leaves had blown in through the door, and the stove's flame had been snuffed.

Of course, their being magic, such predicaments were simple to right, and soon they had summoned the fire once more from the embers, and they sat in perfect harmony on the living-room sofa. The remainder of the lazy Saturday, Luna did some little painting crafts, groomed her pet boar Bilbo, made them a cozy lunch of fish-paste sandwiches, and continued her assignments for the next month's Quibbler. Deciding to make himself useful, Neville focused his efforts on rearranging the pantry, a project that Luna had started a month ago but abandoned completely, and then, the job finished, lounged around listening to Luna, who hummed while she worked.

Deciding that perhaps the time would be right soon, Neville made sure to put the box with the ring back into his pants pocket as soon as possible. He wouldn't be without it for a moment again, not until it was on her finger.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Premier Neige**

"Neville, how should you feel if I attached a fish to the back of your shirt with Spell-O-Tape?"

By now quite used to Luna's frequent odd comments, Neville laced up his boots tightly. With a dutiful flick of his wand, Luna's own usually-neglected feet apparel were made dully presentable.

"I should wonder what day of the month it was," he hazarded and, to his delight, she giggled.

"Why, you must have nipped a peek at that old April issue on The French," Luna suggested, lazily flopping onto the couch and wrapping her arms around him tightly.

He had not actually looked at the issue, but, considering that he _did_ know _something_ about the world around him, he vaguely remembered that French schoolchildren liked to tape paper fishes on each others' backs on a certain day of the year. What day it was, he could not for the life of him remember, but he supposed it was irrelevant.

"Hon, you ought to get a proper jumper, if not a mac. The weather's devilishly cold."

She shrugged, her fragile shoulder-blade running up the small of his back with a jerk.

"I don't mind it," she murmured softly, "particularly when you're around."

He relented slightly and snuggled in her embrace.

"Still," he suggested, "You ought to put something else on. I don't want you to catch cold."

Though he had repeated this mantra four times previously, Luna paid no heed. Indeed, she merely nestled her golden head in the crook of his neck, draped her fingers over his other shoulder, and softly replied, "Oh, I think you've got the Rotespurts again."

"Rotespurts?" he inquired, as he might for a definition.

"They're an evolution of Wrackspurts. Quite pleasant, and they really _do_ mean the best, but are rather irritating because they have a tendency to nag people."

Seeing that this was equivocal, in her language, to saying _really, just stop being a worry-wort!_ he felt rather stricken.

"It's all right, they're better to have than Wrackspurts," Luna was saying, making eye contact with him, and he sadly smiled.

"Well, are you ready, then?" he asked, not about to remind her about wearing another jacket or extra pair of socks.

She nodded.

"To Harry and Ginny's!" they cried together as they entered the Floo, hand in hand.

. . . x . . .

Harry and Ginny were holding an anniversary dinner in remembrance of their marriage the previous year, and Neville and Luna were invited. When they arrived--just the slightest bit early--a very pregnant Ginny ushered them into the kitchen and forced plates of appetizers into their empty hands.

"Do take these out to the tables, would you? And if there's a place that Harry forgot to put a fork or napkin or something, do fill in the place with whatever you can find from the hutch in the parlor."

The alarm-charm that was already screaming behind her was joined by the sound of another alarm, and Ginny began to scream about the biscuits in the oven. While Luna was unafraid of dealing with such domestic calamities, Neville was not; he pottered out of the room, leaving the two women to deal with the terrific hubbub.

 _A man's place is not in the kitchen_ , he thought in his fatigue, mentally repeating one of his grandmum's many mantras.

He dealt with his assigned task absentmindedly, thinking about whether his favorite geranium bed would be well-enough provided for the year's first snow, which was predicted to come that week. The protective measures he set against the frost had performed admirably, but he worried if his supplemental spells would be enough. Harry had forgotten two spoons, and, as per Ginny's request, Neville went to the cabinet in question to look for them.

Having rotten luck in this task, he considered pretending he hadn't noticed the absentee cutlery, but this sinful thought was quelled as a set of silver earrings dropped into his lap, transforming as they fell into lovely spoons.

"Ginny supposed she might not have enough of these," Luna said, watching Neville pick them up in a hurry.

"Lovely!" he managed to say, grateful for her ability to fix even the smallest of problems.

Smiling but silent, Luna nodded and trapezed into the other room, bearing more platters of food.

As he watched her retreat, Neville put his hand on his trouser pocket and traced the faint bump that the blue velvet box made. While he had not planned on proposing to her that evening, the possibility seemed plausible.

The more he thought about it, the more eager he grew.

_I think I'll be able to do it. I really do. Tonight!_

Light of heart, he rose and went to place Luna's spoons where they were needed.

. . . x . . .

The dinner party, though it started out quite calm and classy, soon grew louder and bolder. As soon as the dining tables were put away and the bar set up (with Percy serving as tender), Neville saw the population of the Potters' decent home triple. Some people had been invited after the dinner, simply because the dinner was to entertain a more exclusive group of friends, and a good number of people came along after them just to crash the party.

Soon, Neville found that his dress robes were too hot, the house was too crowded, and the music was too loud. As a result, he found his way out into the Potters' patio and reclined in the rocking-sofa. He was stuffed to the brim with Ginny's hearty dinner, but, for lack of anything else to do, he still snacked on a bowl of crisps pilfered from the bounty of the refreshments table.

 _I've eaten too much already tonight_ , he thought, feeling his belly strain against his belt but unwilling to loosen it even a notch. The pain was self-flagellation inspired by years of his grandmum's bitter consequences; it serves _you_ right for eating too much, she would say, now _you_ have to suffer the consequences. _At least_ , he consoled himself, _I'm not drinking myself under the table._ Just for this, he decided that he needed to reward himself with some ice cream, whenever he found some.

As it was, he didn't like alcohol much; he always acted like a blasted idiot when he'd had more than two Firewhiskeys. Sometimes, at social events like this, he would drink with everyone else, babbling inanely all the while, until he fell blissfully asleep in some secluded corner. However, tonight, he did no more than sip the cheap champagne served with dinner. There was no way he would allow himself to lose control at a function with Luna. What if he, in his happy-garrulous inebriation, accidentally proposed to Luna in front of everybody?

She wouldn't like that, he knew; their romance was still quiet, if only because they both hated the spotlight, and to force it suddenly publicly would be a humiliation. All the more so, if he were rejected. There was still in his mind the lingering doubt of Luna's sincere love for him, though he knew such a fear was irrational. After over a year and a half, what did she have to gain from pretending to have affection for him?

There was also the aspect of pride that kept him away from the bar. _I know I can do it without the influence of alcohol_ , he told himself, _I killed Nagini and fought in the biggest battle of our generation without it. I have Gryffindor courage. Somewhere within me._

It occurred to him that he had not seen Luna for a while, so he eased himself off the chair. Sadly abandoning the remaining crisps, which seemed to scream _you ungrateful boy, you're wasting us!,_ he went inside to search for her.

Diligent, he combed through the party, even foraying onto the dance floor. He was quick to leave the area when he caught a disturbing glimpse of ex-Professor Snape doing the fox-trot (obstinately out of time with the fast-paced Wizard Rock emanating from the enchanted phonographs) with Poppy Pomfrey and actually looking pleasant about it. Floundering from little group to little group, asking after his beloved in the most demure of voices, soon he got more than a shrug or 'what do you want _Looney_ for?' from Dennis Creevy.

"I thought I saw her go out, I think. On the patio."

Had he been so engrossed in looking for her that he missed her go out, or was Creevy mistaken? With a sigh, Neville decided to just go out and see.

Closing the door after him, he marveled anew at the effectiveness of the Potters' silencing spells; none of the neighbors would notice a thing no matter how loud the music got, if the silence just outside on the patio was any indication.

"Oh, _nuit!_ " he heard a beatific voice call, and he saw Luna, standing on the grass lawn with her arms outstretched. "Oh, _c'est une belle nuit!_ "

She liked to spurt random phrases in various languages, as she saw fit, and from her accent Neville detected she was speaking French. Therefore, she was in her most dreamiest of pensive moods.

Not wanting to startle her or rouse her from whatever reverie she was in, he trudged across the frosty ground to join her in gazing at the sky.

The clouds were impenetrable, save where the muted moonlight peered, and Neville's mind flew to his dirigible bushes. He wondered how _they_ would put up if it began to snow tonight.

Though she did not acknowledge otherwise his presence at her side, Luna moved a step closer and wound her arm through his.

To thoroughly spoil the romantic moment, as soon as he trained his mind back to the present and decided that _now is the time!_ , he felt the incomparable urge to belch.

He swallowed forcefully, sucked in his stomach, and managed to quell the feeling, but the result was a lingering burn in the lower esophagus.

 _I really don't feel like kissing_ , he thought, mentally cursing himself for being such a pig. _I'm bloated and full and sleepy and deucedly uncomfortable. Now is NOT the time._

He was further reassured of this when Luna keeled over and vomited profusely in the nearest flowerbed.

"Too much champagne," she weakly said, in a surprisingly bland explanation, taking the handkerchief he offered. "I can't say I've ever been that enthusiastic. I apologize. I'm not fit to be seen right now."

As she shakily patted the corners of her mouth, Neville pulled her close.

 _It's strange to see how she is when she's had a nip too much_ , he thought, concerned. _Why doesn't she blame the blasted Nargles or something?_

For, indeed, under effect of alcohol, Luna no longer seemed like _Luna._ She seemed older, wiser, sadder, and decidedly not as silly as was her wont.

It scared him to see her so solemn of mind, and he vowed to watch her more carefully in the future. _While I can hold my liquor and not suffer too badly, it seems she's the opposite. Poor darling._

His heart further wrenched as he realized that she was crying against his shoulder. Luna, who _never_ shed a tear over everything, was wholeheartedly sobbing.

She had no quaint expressions to break the monotony of her sadness, no suppositions about magical creatures that allegedly plagued him. Instead, her vulnerabilities began to surface, and Neville was aware of the fact that they closely resembled his own.

"You must think I'm vile," she whispered, "drinking too much and then spewing it all over your feet. I don't have your restraint. I just took it like water, never thinking about it. I thought I'd hold it, if I came out here. I was trying so hard to be courageous and brave, like you."

"Shh, shh," Neville hushed, feeling all the more tender towards her as he heard her words. _She thinks I have restraint? She thinks I'm courageous? If only she knew how I struggle against food and how I'm struggling to try and propose to her, just for two examples! I'm not worthy of her best estimation._

"I'm not...I'm not worthy of you, Neville," she sobbed, echoing his thoughts, extending her arms around torso and hugging him close.

"How in the _world_ do you think _that?_ " he asked in near outrage. "You're perfection, Luna. Absolute perfection. If...I guess if somebody's not worth somebody in this situation, it's me who's not worthy of _you_. I mean, have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror? Why do you go out with me, the way I look?"

Her bitter laugh was far from what he expected. "That's just it. I don't think anything of how you look or how I look. My _soul_ isn't worthy of your _soul._ The body has nothing to do with anything; it passes away and ages so quickly, what's the purpose of examining it closely? But...your soul, Neville, is the most pure and good-hearted I know. It's _beautiful._ I desire it. Therefore, I'm in love with you, because that's what love is, ultimately, a desire for beauty."

That didn't make a lot of sense to Neville, but he realized that her usual self was showing, just faintly, through her scary state.

Clasping him tighter, her voice was pleading. "Love me, Neville. Find something in me that's worth admiring. I do so want to please you."

He was silent for a moment, trying to find an answer for her, but he felt her body sagging in exhaustion, and he supposed that he ought to escort her home.

"I love you," he whispered, and walked her to the Potters' garden gate.

He noticed, just before they Disapparated, that the faintest trace of snowflakes were beginning to fall. The ones that landed in Luna's hair, he kissed tenderly away, and he prayed that she be all right in the morning.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Floo Calls**

During the year of the renewed D.A., Ginny utilized Neville as a sounding-board for her rants. Often after Hogwarts, she still did, particularly when Harry was the subject of discussion, when Harry refused to listen, or when she needed someone to agree with her and Harry would not.

It seemed that this latter was the case the morning after the Anniversary party. Neville was already up, bumbling around the flat with a watering-can, and wondering if Luna was all right after the night prior. He had tucked her into her bed and left her sound asleep, but he still worried all night and was eager to race to her side--as soon as it was socially acceptable. _Grandmum always said, never Floo-call before ten in the morning except in the most dire of circumstances. It lacks class._

So, he was waiting for Ten O'Clock so that he could call upon her.

To his surprise and temporary nervousness, he heard the Floo-Bell ring, and he raced to answer it. _Is it Luna? Is she all right?_

It was Ginny, actually, primed and ready for an explosion.

"Hullo, Neville--you enjoy the party last night?"

"Yes," he said truthfully, for it was a lovely party before things got out of hand in the garden.

"Good," she pressed on, like a motor-bus. "Because, you see, someone _else_ thought it was a little dull, and decided to spice things up a bit for his own benefit."

Neville paused. _She wouldn't be griping about me_ to _me, so I imagine she means Harry._ "Really?"

"Yes," she said, breathlessly vindictive, "Our lovely ex-Professor _SNAPE_ decided to _propose_ to _MADAM POMFREY_ right there in our _living room!"_

Thinking it well that he had been prevented from doing something similar that evening, Neville had a hard time feeling sorry for Ginny.

"Well..." he floundered, thinking that how desperately inappropriate it was for him to pretend to be aggrieved, "...was he drunk?"

"Hadn't been near the bar all evening, Percy says," Ginny scathingly cut, "though I expect he keeps a flask on him. You ever notice how much the old creeper's hands shake?"

"No," Neville replied, thinking _I wouldn't blame him if he_ did _keep a bit on his person, after all he's been through. I'm sure he's got terrible memories._ "I did see them dancing together," he said aloud, "and he didn't look miserable about it."

"But it's _Madam Pomfrey!"_ shrieked Ginny in desperation. "She's at least ten years older than him! And she's so _nice!_ Have you forgotten what a git he's been all his life? Just, now that he's a war hero, suddenly he's a jolly good fellow?"

"Oh, no," Neville stated quickly. "I haven't forgotten how nasty he is."

"But it seems all the bloody world _has._ Am I wrong to be angry? It was an Anniversary party for Harry and _me_! Not an open invitation for proposals! Am I being totally unreasonable? I didn't even _want_ Snape there, but Harry--in a terrible display of good-will towards all men--insisted! And now--get this, Neville--he says that Neville's--I mean Snape's--got a right to have some bit of happiness, and he's actually flattered to think that Snape took advantage of the opportunity we gave to snatch some up! Isn't that absolute rubbish?"

Neville didn't think so, but Ginny had a point. _It was their party._ He felt as though he had acted reprehensibly just by thinking about proposing to Luna there.

"I don't know, Ginny," he said, his customary ducking-out line, "I think you've got a point-"

"-a darn good one, too!"

"-but can't you just let sleeping dogs lie? Or, erm...is that the phrase I mean?"

"Ugh!" she cried aloud, "You boys are _impossible!_ I'll talk to you later, Neville--I'm calling my mum."

"All right, see you, Ginny!"

"By the way," she suddenly asked, "when are you going to ask Luna?"

Neville's innards clenched. _Is my intention really so obvious?_

"I mean," Ginny continued, "You've been pretty much together for quite a while now. Do you intend to keep it that way, or are you not really sure?"

Looking down, Neville shrugged. "I've got the ring."

"Oh! Goody!" Ginny exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "Well then, I guess I'll leave you to it."

"Bye, Ginny," Neville said, closing the connection.

"I can't wait to tell Harry!" was the last words he heard from her.

_Gracious. I guess I ought to get a move on it._

. . . x . . .

About an hour later--at nine--he received another Floo call.

He was very surprised to see Xenophilius' glasses peeking out of the fender.

"Oh! Erm, Neville, you are there, aren't you?"

"Hullo, Mr. Lovegood," Neville replied, settling down at the hearth. "Is something wrong?"

"Well...erm...a bit. I was just wanting to let you know, Luna's come down with pneumonia. After you left her last night, she experienced an extraordinary amount of gastronomic discharge, and now she's got a bit of a cough."

 _Oh, Hera bless her._ Neville stood, ran to grab his cloak, and snatched up his wand from the dresser. "I'm coming over," he declared forcefully, but quickly recanted to politeness. "May I?" he added, shyly. Smiling absent-mindedly and muttering about Umgubular Slashkilters, Xeno moved his head out of the way, and Neville stepped through in a pinch.

"I hope she's in bed?" he asked when he entered the cheerful yellow kitchen. Xenophilius nodded, and Neville raced up the stairs, two at a time.

He meant to make a grand entrance, barging into her bedroom to exclaim _What on earth were you thinking?._ However, her door was already open, so he couldn't throw it open with a bang, and as he entered, her questioning eyes met his immediately. Feeling like she had caught him red-handed at something, he stood paralyzed in the doorway.

"Good morning to you, too," Luna said, placid. She appeared pale and drowsy, and her hair was rumpled and a little oily, but otherwise she seemed all right. Her forefingers were stuck in a straw Chinese Finger Trap. "I'm really not too ill. Do come in, if you like."

Realizing that he was nothing more than a lovelorn puppy in her presence, Neville nodded soberly, entered, and seated himself on the over-sized orange armchair at her writing desk.

It was not often that he was in Luna's bedroom, and he never ceased to marvel at it. Two walls were completely covered with painted figures, as crowded and detailed as a medieval tapestry. Half of the third wall was sketched, but not painted, while the fourth was a blank white. The ceiling was also decorated, with the faces of Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville himself, these surrounded by the chain of the word _friends_ repeated over and over in gold ink. There was tons of color carelessly splotched everywhere; even the giant hole in the faded blue carpet had been patched up with a scrap of mauve stuff that didn't go with anything else. To explicate that a color-wheel bomb had erupted in there would not be a far-off guess from the truth, Neville wagered.

"You're all right?" he asked after his brief survey of the decor. Luna nodded in reply.

"Quite. I'm afraid daddy over-reacted. I got a bit hypothermic, but I'm not sick."

The dainty, phlegm-ridden cough that followed these words contradicted her assessment.

"Oh, darling." He stood in urgent response.

Smiling, she waved away his concern. "Do sit."

He did, settling down cautiously on the bed near two wiggling lumps--which were her feet, he hoped, and not hedgehogs.

"I'm sorry about last night," she said, strangely melancholy, and Neville's eyes met hers. "I was unsightly."

"You could never be unsightly," he replied, though he felt this was not generous. "You just reacted badly to the champagne."

She sighed, wiggling her elbows so that the finger-trap tightened.

"You are biased, rather," she complacently answered, and turned her eyes down on to focus on the toy.

She brought her hands together, slipped her forefingers from the contraption, and put it on again, this time on her noticeably-bare ring fingers.

To his later chagrin, Neville didn't catch the hint.

"It's not just bias!" he argued. Turning away from her, he picked up the picture of little Luna and Mrs. Lovegood from the bed-side table. "You turned out more like your father than your mother," he decided, holding the picture up to the light and comparing its image to the living representative.

Luna shrugged. "I hope that's a good thing, in your opinion."

"You don't have her hair. Yours is prettier."

"Well, it really is just a subjective opinion sort of thing, anyhow," Luna replied with a slight laugh, drawing herself up on the pillows and folding her legs beneath her. "Do you mind increasing the heating charms? I'm cold."

At least he knew _this_ cue by heart. Replacing the photograph by the lamp, he scooted himself over until he was settled next to her.

"Before I leave," he said by way of verbal reply, but he gently slid his arm over her shoulder and enveloped her in a warm embrace.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . . 

**Reading  
**

Luna's pneumonia kept her in bed for a whole two weeks. This was fine by Neville, who was rather relieved to have an idea where she was at all times.

_Still, of course, I'm probably at fault for her being sick at all--if she hadn't gone out in the cold, if I had brought her in sooner, she would probably not be ill now._

In any case, feeling responsible for her illness, he took extra care to make it up to her in a million small ways. Since she had not the appetite for anything more than bread, water, and broth, he made certain to provide it--fresh airy French baguettes still warm from the bakery, the clearest distillation of _Aguamenti_ , and he even pilfered his grandmum's recipe for vegetable herb broth.

Luna protested these ministrations, but only at first, and only enough to be modest. She was never ungrateful.

He spent much time at the Lovegood household during Luna's invalid state, paying her such services as he thought would render her more happy or comfortable. Of course, being the ethereal sort of person that she was, they were all things she would not have contrived on her own, and indeed would never have occurred to her. Therefore, each of his ministrations was all the more precious in her sight; where she would have not acknowledged an awareness for her own welfare, he concerned himself with it. She saw the value of every little thing he did, not in the way that most people would; every trivial gift was evidence of his heart on a platter, prostrate for her, and she treated it as such. Never did a service go without a sincere 'thank you', and Neville felt that he was being truly helpful to her, and therefore was more satisfied with himself and less inclined to collect Rotespurts.

However, for all his anxiousness to fulfill her every probable or improbable need, her favorite thing to do was simply sitting next to him on her bed and listen to him read aloud. He invariably sat at her right, gingerly settled on top of the bedclothes while she was tucked in, and leaned against the headboard when his back got stiff. If an artist had tweaked their ages around, they might have been the perfect models for a painting of an older brother reading to his little sister, or that of a young man reading to his aging grandmother.

He wasn't particularly dramatic, or particularly fluent at reading, but Luna seemed to not mind. She just listened, clasping his free hand in her own, mutely resting her bonny blonde head on his shoulder. On rare occasions, usually during the saddest part of the story, she would have a severe fit of coughing that racked her fragile, thin frame, and it would only go away after Neville smothered her in an all-ensconcing embrace. When she was particularly quiet, and he paused to see if she had fallen asleep, her eyes opened to beg him to continue. She never fell fully asleep until he stopped reading.

To his immense dissatisfaction, Neville did have work in the day, and he had to be at Sprout's greenhouses from seven in the morning until four in the afternoon. The winter was one of the most taxing times for magical gardeners, full of extra little details to protect the plants that were out-of-doors from the snow, and to keep the more active ones indoors from getting too bored.

However, the work, while mundane, was not as grueling as pruning, raking, and weeding, and Neville managed to have the energy to read to Luna for at least four hours once he got home.

Home. By which, he didn't actually mean his place of residence. No, at this point, he very much considered Luna's side to be his home. Was he a bit pathetic? Perhaps. Was he unhappy with the situation? Not at all, except insofar as _he hadn't bloody proposed to her yet!_

In the late afternoon of a Wednesday, taking a brief respite in the midst of reading aloud to his darling, he leaned his head against hers and watched the snowflakes fall outside. Luna's eyes were closed, and she might have been asleep had not her thin lips been pursed.

It was during this comfortable lull that Orpheus touched him, and Neville was therefore inspired.

"Go on," wished Luna, barely moving her lips in her ill fatigue.

"I'm rather bored of this, actually," Neville said, closing the book. "I'd like to read something else."

In particularly, he had his heart set on _The Romance of Tristan and Iseult_ , which he knew was somewhere on the bookshelves downstairs. It was a story that he had grown up with, it being one of his grandmother's favorites, and there was one particular part of which he was thinking.

"Whatever you like," Luna replied drowsily, lifting her head and blinking her eyes open.

With a murmured _Accio_ , Neville called the book in question, and it landed in his lap.

"What is it?" asked Luna, pawing at the cover, and Neville showed her. "I've never read this," she stated, then closed her eyes and settled her head on his shoulder again. "Do begin."

Briefly, Neville skimmed the pages. The part he wanted was near the middle. Soon he found it.

 _"The Ford_ ," he began, and waited to see if Luna would notice that he was not starting at the beginning. She did not stir, and he saw that his half-formed plan would be perfect. A hand that trembled in excitement laid its hand on his trouser-pocket, and he felt the velvet box, safe and secure.

He skipped a page or two into the chapter, and began to read aloud.

_Towards midnight Tristan crossed the Heath of Sand, and found the writ, and bore it sealed to Ogrin; and the hermit read the letter; "How Mark consented by the counsel of his barons to take back Iseult, but not to keep Tristan for his liege. Rather let him cross the sea, when, on the third day hence, at the Ford of Chances, he had given back the Queen into King Mark's hands." Then Tristan said to the Queen:_

_"O, my God! I must lose you, friend! But it must be, since I can thus spare you what you suffer for my sake. But when we part for ever I will give you a pledge of mine to keep, and from whatever unknown land I reach I will send some messenger, and he will bring back word of you, and at your call I will come from far away."_

_Iseult said, sighing:_

_"Tristan, leave me your dog, Hodain, and every time I see him I will remember you, and will be less sad. And, friend, I have here a ring of green jasper. Take it for the love of me, and put it on your finger; then if anyone come saying he is from you, I will not trust him at all till he show me this ring, but once I have seen it, there is no power or royal ban that can prevent me from doing what you bid—wisdom or folly."_

_"Friend," he said, "here give I you Hodain."_

_"Friend," she replied, "take you this ring in reward."_

His breathing was coming altogether too quickly, and his heart was pounding. Sensing the change in his demeanor, Luna's head rose from its resting-place and tilted slightly, so that she could look into his eyes.

Shaking more than he felt he ought, Neville thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out the blue velvet box. His fingers felt like they were disjointed from his body, however, and as soon as he had it in his hand, he dropped it on the floor.

"Bugger."

Flushing profusely, he leaned over the side of the bed and snatched the box up again, unsure whether to shove it back in his pocket and pretend the whole thing hadn't happened, or if he should go ahead and give it to her.

A small Mona-Lisa smile played upon her lips, however, and it was all the encouragement he needed.

"You...you _will_ marry me, won't you?" he pleaded, taking both her hands in his and pressing the box into them.

Her eyes were dancing, and he detected the slightest amount of moisture along their lower rims.

"Sweetheart, of course."

And they kissed each other on the lips.

**The Old Block**

In a few days' time, Luna was better, and none too soon! Preparations for Christmas were underway everywhere around the new couple, and eagerly they joined the foray.

"Dad rarely decorates," Luna explained as she whisked around the house with evergreens boughs, "That was mum's job, and it makes him a little sad to think about her. But then..." Her eyes cast a glance at him, and he knew she was thinking _but then your parents never do_.

To show he didn't mind, Neville sadly smiled.

"Are you ready to go, except for these?" he asked, laying down his load of fir branches. They were going to Gran Longbottom's that afternoon, to assist her in baking Christmas cookies.

"Rather," Luna replied, and waved her wand at the levitated and rose, and she gently knotted them together and hung them in garlands around the room. "I think that's good enough."

In an attempt to be coy, Neville coughed and suggested, "Aren't you going to add...erm...mistletoe?"

"Nonsense," she replied dreamily, "You can't get it without it being infested by Nargles. Would you like for us to be snogging in the doorjamb and then have a mischievous little creature come up and pinch you?"

His registration cut off at 'snogging in the doorjamb', at which point he got a tad bit distracted about the idea, and at the end of her phrase he just shrugged, pretending that he heard.

"It depends," he murmured.

Her prim giggle made him smile. Turning away, she carefully replied, "I take that as an invitation to experiment."

_Experiment...snogging...invitation...doorjamb...mmm._

Happily preoccupied, he barely realized that she had grasped his hand and yanked him into the Floo until they arrived in his grandmum's kitchen.

Rising from the hearth, Neville blinked back to reality. Sweet smells were all around him, soft sunlight streamed through the grungy kitchen window, and the soft hand of his fiance clasped his. It was almost leaving one dream to enter another.

That is, it was like a dream until the dismal shadow of his grandmum appeared.

"Neville! Hello, hun," Gran Longbottom said, wrapping her grandson in a prim embrace. "I see you've brought your...schoolmate along."

A strain of panic went through Neville. Gran never had taken a shining to Luna, not that they had a lot of contact, of course, but she was very disapproving of Xeno. This was for many reasons that spanned her personal history, the earliest of which was that her old great school-day nemesis Forest Feldspar had been his mother, later Frank had lost major duels to him in Hogwarts Gobstones Tournaments, and most recently he had defected to aiding the Dark Lord to save his daughter. Needless to say, she considered Xeno with great distaste. Considering her history, and how she pretended Neville and Luna were not together, how would she react to knowing that they were...

He felt Luna's eyes on him--not asking for anything, just curious as to how he would ask.

_I need to show her that I really do love her. She won't hold it against me if I don't...I think...but..._

With a surge of gutsy bravado, he raised Luna's hand and showed his grandmum the ring.

The woman's eyes bulged, but she maintained her composure. Demure, she murmured, "Miss Lovegood, you have a way with animals. Would you be so kind as to find the cat? She's out in the yard."

"Certainly!" Luna replied, and skipped amiably out of the room, touching her fingers to her lips with an implied kiss to Neville.

He felt sick, particularly when he heard a 'meow!' from the living room.

"Neville Patrick Longbottom!"

Any lack of rim-rodness he might have possessed was vanquished with that demand. Like a soldier called to attention, he held his shoulders back, his chest high, and his legs straight. However, his nervousness was belied in his trembling lower lip.

"You are _engaged_ to be _married?_ You and that...little _girl?_ "

"Yes, grandmum," he managed, feeling every muscle--even those in his buttocks!--tighten at the insult to his beloved.

"I can't believe it." Augusta Longbottom inhaled and exhaled, then put a pale hand to her forehead. "I can _not_ believe it."

"You're not upset, are you?" he queried, though unnecessarily.

"Upset?" shrieked Augusta, "Of course I'm upset. After all I've done for you--after all the pain of raising you and taking care of you, you go and get yourself _engaged?_ To the daughter of _Xenophilius Lovegood_ , no less?"

"But Gran," he pleaded, "please, listen to me."

"No, young man, _you_ listen to _me._ How _dare_ you go off and get yourself engaged to be married, when you don't even have a decent job?"

"I've got my apprenticeship, haven't I?" he replied in a mumble, feeling any semblance of courage leave him.

"Fat lot of good _that'll_ do you," she scoffed. "What kind of job is one in _Herbology?_ I've always told you, if you're going to have children, be in the Ministry; that's where all the money is, nowadays."

"Well, I could work as an Herbologist in the Ministry, once I have my Mastership," Neville weakly proposed, feeling foolish indeed. _She has a point._

She didn't seem to hear, and continued her rant heedlessly. "I know you young lovers, and I know _you_ , Neville. You hate to be hungry, but the life you're entering, that's all you'll ever be. Just like Molly Prewett and Arthur Weasley, with six children before you're thirty."

Neville's eyes opened wide. _Children? I'm not ready for children!_

"Hah! What did I just say? You didn't even think that far ahead, eh? Didn't realize that with marriage comes children? Did you even know, Neville, that when you get married, you _sleep_ with the woman?"

He almost replied, _But I have slept with her!_ though almost too late he realized that his grandmum was talking about The Kind of Sleeping Which Isn't Really Sleeping At All, and since he hadn't been doing _that_ with Luna, he thought it wise to shut his mouth.

"I still am going to marry her," he stated, feeling awkward, "Though obviously not right now. People have engagements that last for years and years."

"And what good is that? What if you find someone else? Or," she reminded, dredging up the dormant seed of doubt, "what if _she_ finds someone else?"

Neville shrugged. "We separated for a few months while she finished school last year. There wasn't anybody for her, and there certainly wasn't any for me." Though, of course, there _could_ have been someone, that she just didn't tell him about...but he brushed the thought away. No one else could come and go as freely in the Lovegood household as him; if there was someone else, they would have crossed paths very early.

This seemed to rile his grandmum terribly, however. "What do you mean by that, young man? You're in the prime of youth, you look just like your father when he was your age (and he was devilishly handsome), and you're a proven war hero. You cut off the head of a giant snake. Why is there no one else for you?"

Neville shrugged. "Well, Gran, there...there just isn't. Almost no girls talk to me, except ones that are spoken for. And Luna."

"I don't believe that," she said, seating herself at the kitchen table with a sigh. "In my day, we'd all be swooning after a young man who had killed a giant snake."

"Sorry, Gran. It's not your day anymore."

Seeing that her argumentative energy had finally worn down, Neville slumped against the wall.

"I am sorry, Gran. I guess I ought to have told you sooner."

"When did this happen?" she asked, staring at some distant point on the ground.

"Three days past. It's very new."

"But you couldn't think to tell your old grandmum about it until now."

Neville sighed, and went to join her at the table.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd be anything but happy."

"Happy!" she chortled bitterly, and closed her eyes. "May I ask you something, Neville?"

"What is it?"

"Do you _really_ love her?"

"Yes." The response was immediate, but even as he said it, he felt a little bit of doubt. He pushed it away vehemently. _Don't let her bully you_ , he chastised himself, _you're a grown man now._

"How much do you love her?"

He frowned, and realized he was hungry. "What do you mean by that?"

His grandmum's eyes were closed. "Would you die for her?"

"Yes."

She posed for another question. "Would you give up magic for her?"

"If necessary."

"Would you disobey my explicit command to _not_ marry her?"

_Oh no._

Here he was in a moral quandary. _Respect my grandmum and hurt the woman I love? Or the other way 'round? Oh no. I don't know which is worse._

He realized that a warm, withered hand was grasping his. "You don't need to answer that, hon. I just wanted to see if you still loved this old bag of bones."

"Of course I love you, Gran!" he exclaimed, fervently happy to have avoided answering the question. He liked to think that he would have respected his grandmum's request and then married Luna at some time after his grandmum died, but it was still at the risk of hurting Luna incredibly. For some the answer would be easy--love or family?--but for him it was more difficult.

"Go call in your...fiance," Augusta said, withdrawing her hand and standing. "It's so close to Christmas, and we've got several batches to bake. And," she continued pensively, "if the little thing's really going to be your wife, I suppose I ought to see if her cooking is up to par. Considering that she's got only Xenophilius to teach her at home, I imagine she's rather terrible."

Feeling lighter, Neville yanked on a mac and quickly went out the back door, so elated that he bumped into Luna and barely noticed her.

"Is the gorgon appeased?" she asked poetically as he did a double-take.

"Thankfully," he sighed, breathing in the smell of new snow.

"Good." Two cold hands touched his cheeks. "I'm glad of that," she stated, looking meaningfully into his eyes. Then she kissed him, and turned around.

"I didn't find the cat," she added, "I daresay it's been got by a Kitygoulper."

He laughed, because there was nary a footprint in the whole backyard, which was spread with snow that fell the night previous, but then he wondered if she was listening the whole time...

**The Point of Convergence**

The Burrow was a veritable ruckus when Luna and Neville arrived there early on Christmas afternoon.

"Ginevra Molly Potter, I might be able to work magic, but you expect me to cook for an extra twenty people who _might_ just pop in for dinner? Along with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who might tag along with _them?_ Pregnancy never made _me_ so absent-minded that I couldn't tell my poor ol' Ma Prewett about changes to the guest list!"

A furious Molly Weasley was at the stove as the pair Flooed into the kitchen, her expression so terse as to nearly make Neville drop the enormous wreath he carried.

"Well, mum," Ginny sniped, her sarcastic streak coming though in her tone, "I'll just let them know they're not welcome-"

"-No, young lady, you will _not_ cancel them! Lord, how do you think taking back invitations will reflect on us?"

At this, both women registered Neville and Luna standing on the hearth.

"Oh, lawks-a-mussy, thank goodness for a man!" exclaimed Molly Weasley, rushing towards them both for a quick embrace with a dripping spatula in her hand. "Neville, hon, would you be a dear and scamper off to the store? I need about three dozen eggs and six pounds of butter."

"Erm, of course, Mrs. Weasley," he acquiesced politely.

Luna gave him a sweet kiss on the cheek. "Don't be long," she said, slipping a few galleons in his hand.

Blushing just faintly, Neville was tickled by Luna's unusual Public Display of Affection but also mortified at accepting money from his fiancee (for which he rather felt a cad). But, he had a task to uphold, so he dazedly bid the ladies adieu and dove back into the fireplace.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

 _Pentagruel_ was exceedingly busy--it being Christmas day and all--and the lines just to enter the store were incredibly long. Of course, among all those people, it was only likely that Neville would meet someone he knew in the crowd.

"Why, Hannah Abbott!"

It was the gentle-tempered Hufflepuff girl whom Dean Thomas fancied in seventh year 'for her d-grade knockers'. By Neville's estimation, she had not much changed since he saw her at Luna's graduation, but then, the girl never did look different, even after the death of her mother in the autumn of their sixth year.

"Neville Longbottom!" she responded in kind. Like him, she bore a large shopping basket, only hers was full to the brim with sweet-breads and fancies instead of the staples requested by Molly Weasley. "Fancy meeting you here!" she exclaimed, advancing and giving him a tender, albeit awkward, hug.

"By...Circe, I agree." Neville bit his tongue a little bit. _Since when have I felt the need to say something as absurd as 'by the feather of a pterodactyl'?_ A feeling of amusement bubbled within him. _I daresay Luna's eccentricity is rubbing off on me._

"Are you in line?" she asked, and Neville realized that he was neglecting his duties as a gentleman.

"Oh, yes, but you go ahead," he insisted, stepping back so that she could take his place.

"Oh, well, thanks, I didn't mean to imply that...well..." she fumbled, embarrassed. Smiling blandly, he nodded his head deferentially, and she aceded to his place. "Sorry, I do have more than you, and you look like you left someone with something on the stove," she continued to blather hopelessly, and Neville's mind went back to the Weasley kitchen for the smallest iota of a second.

"I think they can get on without me for a few extra minutes," he replied, and was surprised at how gallant he sounded.

"I suppose so. I mean, if you say so," she answered, and then, blushing profusely, she began to rummage in her purse. "Where are you spending Christmas, then?" she asked.

"Dinner at the Weasley's, first off--this stuff's for the hostess, as you might expect," Neville explained, "then we're off to visit my parents."

 _The advantage of being older_ , Neville mused to himself, _is when I say it like that, nobody would think that they're in Saint Mungo's. It sounds pretty normal, actually._

The slight pride he felt contrasted dramatically with his companion's reaction. "We?" Hannah stopped digging, her eyes growing large.

"Oh. Yes. Erm. My fiancee and me. Luna. You know her, I think." Neville felt a prick of something indiscernible in the back of his mind. _Did I say something wrong?_

"Luna? Luna _Lovegood?"_ Hannah's lips pursed, and she seemed suddenly to be torn between laughing and crying. "You...you and _her?_ "

She still was staring rapturously into her purse, as though it contained a mirror at the bottom of it, but Neville could tell that she wasn't really looking at it, but beyond it. He supposed that she needed a spot to focus her eyes upon, and her purse was convenient.

"Yes, actually," he replied, apologetically.

"Oh." That seemed to be the dominant word in their conversation. "Oh," she repeated, raising her head and not meeting his eyes.

The line moved forward, and she put her basket on the counter to be evaluated by the cashier.

"So," Neville said, trying to mend the breach of the conversation, "What are you doing today?"

"Just me and my dad," she replied mutely. "I was rather hoping, while I was out, to find some poor soul who...who didn't have a Christmas to go to. Maybe a clean-looking bum. I don't know."

"Three galleons and two knuts please, m'am," the cashier demanded, and Hannah numbly counted out the exact change.

"Nice to see you, Neville," she said as she parted.

Vaguely, as he watched her leave, Neville felt like he had somehow ruined Hannah Abbott's Christmas.

_That's a pity. Oh well._

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Apparating back with the groceries, Neville re-entered the kitchen of the Burrow to find Molly, Ginny, Fleur, and Penelope Clearwater somehow working in concord. Whereas Fleur was the one alienated in the past, now Penelope was the outsider, and both Ginny and Fleur hissed at her cooking skills. No one remembered Neville or the errand he had been sent on, but his gifts were scooped up and applied to numerous culinary constructions that were in the process of development. For his efforts, he received a pocketful of assorted Christmas biscuits. As soon as the attention of the Maenads was diverted from his person, Neville snuck into the living-room in search of his fairy-like beloved.

In his usual style, he seemed to pop up everywhere he oughtn't, completely inadverdently.

For instance, his first encounter was with Hermione, who was engaged in vociferous banter with an increasingly-tipsy Ron.

"Ronald! You take that back!"

So saying, she slapped the accused across the face.

"Well, it's true, ain't it?" the boy mumbled, taking a sloshy swig from the bottle in his hand. "Your tits get perky when I call you that."

"Hey guys," Neville interrupted, ducking between them, "just passing through."

"Neville!" exclaimed Hermione, dropping her argument with Ron temporarily to diplomatically hug her friend. "I heard about you and Luna. My enthusiastic congratulations to you both!"

"Thank you so much," he replied gratefully, but Ron's voice plowed over his.

"'Mione, even Neville and Loony are doing it. Why can't we?" While Neville bristled at Ron calling his darling 'Loony'--a habit that his school chum persisted to indulge in, despite entreaties from all quarters--Hermione's cold reply was chastisement enough.

"First of all, Ronald," answered Hermione severely, "You ought to expand your emotional range enough to stop with such outrageous epithets. There's some things I simply can't tolerate, and that's disrespecting other people. Second of all, as I've told you since graduation, I'm going to pursue a bloody career before saddling myself with--with a family. I don't want to be a mum, not yet anyway!"

"Buzz off, Neville," Ron interjected, suddenly morose.

"Erm, of course. Be light on him, 'Mione: it's Christmas," Neville said sheepishly, turning away from the pair.

Before plunging into the mass of people in the living room, Neville heard Ron say, "Yeah, 'Mione. He's got a point. Kiss me, yeah?"

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

"Ah HA ha ha ha!" A shrill crescendo of laughter came from Neville's immediate right, and a heavy hand laid on his shoulder there. "Neville, right? You the one who killed that old snake in the Battle of Hogwarts?"

"Uh-huh," Neville replied, trying to remember if the twin addressing him was George or Fred. Which one had died? He thought the survivor, and the wild-eyed man breathing the rancid scent of Ogdin's in his face, was Fred, but he couldn't be sure. "Um, hi."

"Hi yourself," the twin remarked, maneuvering Neville towards one corner of the room. "Care for a bottle o'something?"

"Nothing for me, thanks," Neville replied, not trusting the man to give him even a straight butterbeer. He had been prey to the twin's pranks for so many years that he figured he ought to know better than to accept anything from them by now.

"Leave the poor boy alone, George," the stern voice of Arthur Weasley demanded from behind them. At this, George's grasp loosened, and Neville ducked away with a muttered 'thanks anyway'.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Snape was sitting on the couch, squished between the ample proportions of his betrothed and the arm of the sofa, and looking shy as a wilted cabbage leaf. Addressing the pair was Harry, who had a far-away glint in his eye while he regarded his hero. As Neville drew close, Snape assumed a hot and bothered expression that was only vaguely reminiscent of his old irritation.

"Potter, this is neither the time nor the place to discuss your mother. I would appreciate if you would, at this time, restrict your comments to the weather and your health, until such point as you are capable of discussing more interesting subjects suitably."

"But Professor, I just wanted to know about what she-"

"-I don't care, Potter. You may address such queries in letters as usual, and I shall reply to them as I see fit, as usual. This discussion is over."

"All right, I'll write to you, but I don't have a way with the quill like you do, Professor. I can't think on paper. It's easier to talk, for me."

"Remember, Potter, you are the one with the questions, and I am the one with the answers. You will adapt your medium to accommodate me. Now, Poppy," Snape added, his voice strangely close to whinging, "as my Healer, tell him I've got a case of laryngitis and can't speak."

"I'll need to verify that, Severus," Madame Pomfrey replied briskly, but with a Dumbledorian twinkle in her eye. "Look at me, open your mouth, and say 'ah'."

Taking her reply as a 'come-hither' cue, Snape lowered his eyelids, raised a single eyebrow suggestively, opened his mouth, and quickly leaned into his woman for a deep, sensual kiss.

Harry merely chuckled, as at two foolish children, and stood, patting Snape's shoulder kindly. It was at this point that he saw Neville, who watched the whole proceedings with an uncanny sense of horrified fascination.

"Neville!" exclaimed the young man amiably, and embraced his old school-mate with a one-armed hug. "How goes it? So glad you could be here. Have something from this cheese platter I'm 'sposed to be passing around."

"Oh, glorious, it's Longbottom," Snape interjected dryly. "And, may I mention, you neglected to offer _me_ any, Potter."

"Selfish brute!" giggled Madame Pomfrey, drawing her arms possessively around the skin-and-bone frame of the Potions Master.

"Of course," the latter amended, "Excuse me, you neglected to offer any to _us_."

"Here, I'm glad to be rid of it," Harry replied, laying the tray of cheeses back on the coffee-table once Neville had picked a few nibbles from it. "Get a room, you two," he added humorously to the older adults, who seemed intent on monopolizing the attention of the young men by feeding each other in the most salacious manner possible.

"I think we will," Snape snarked, his dark head on Pomfrey's shoulder, "I believe there's a Master Bedroom in Grimmauld Place that's available this moment, if I'm not mistaken?"

"He's only joking, Neville," Harry noted as they walked away, ignoring the comment, "and honestly, it's good to see him like this. Last year, he wouldn't rise to the largest bait--he thought he deserved nothing but death, and he felt had been cheated out of it, or something like that."

"That's awful!" Neville remarked, despite feeling that it was eerily un-Snape-like to be so close to suicidal.

"Yeah, especially because he spent so long atoning for his sins afterward. But now he's got some small amount of happiness, and we're in the middle of the court case that's clearing his reputation. That makes me very happy, to see him happy, you know."

So saying, Harry directed Neville to the bar, where Percy (apparently the default tender for Weasley family functions--likely a punishment for his straight-laced nature) served them two butterbeers.

"Gin's keeping sober for li'l James' sake, so I am too," Harry explained good-naturedly. "Speaking of Gin, I thought I heard her say that you and Luna are officially going to tie the knot?"

Neville blushed with pleasure. "Yeah, rather," he answered, and he turned even pinker when he saw a bunch of enchanted flying mistletoe float past him through the air.

"You got a date yet?"

"A date?" asked Neville, thinking of the take-Luna-out-and-snog-somewhere-romantic kind.

"For the wedding!"

"Oh!" Neville frowned; he hadn't even thought so far ahead. "No, not really," he answered. "I guess it'll be whenever Luna wants it. I'm not much partial. I mean, I'd like it to be sooner, of course," he added hastily, as he thought Harry looked mildly alarmed, "but Luna's so...well, she's worth so much to me, I don't mind waiting until she's ready. I guess I'm not completely ready, myself," he admitted. "It's an enormous responsibility. I'd like to have a steady job before we take that step."

"Have you told her that?" Harry asked, leaning against the bar and swirling the remaining ice in his glass. "I mean, I don't have a ton of experience yet, but I learned pretty fast that Ginny needs to know everything that I want before she's gotten most of the planning done. I mean, we have to communicate a lot, otherwise we're not working together. You know what I mean?"

Neville nodded. "That makes sense."

Motioning for Percy to refill his glass, Harry looked out over the crowd of people in the living room, and then frowned.

"Oh no. Look at Lee Jordan."

Across the room, a rather tipsy-looking Lee was dragging a reluctant fair-headed nymph towards the mistletoe.

"Oi!" Neville exclaimed, nearly dropping his glass in his haste to slip off his stool. "What the hell does he think he's doing?"

Apparently, Lee did have an idea about what he was doing, because as he passed a group of sullen-looking Ravenclaws in deep discussion, he plucked out one from the circle and shoved the surprised victim and Luna underneath the mistletoe.

The weedy young man and Luna Lovegood immediately stepped away from the floating parasitic plant, exclaiming in unison, "But it's infested with nargles!"

At this, Neville watched in horror as the two locked eyes, apparently aghast at the similarity of their reaction.

_Oh no. Oh no. Oh no._

Panicking with the irrational thought that she might slip away into the darkness with this mysterious stranger who seemed to be uncannily tuned to her channel, Neville broke through the crowd towards them. He sighed with relief when he appeared at his beloved's side. All she was doing was cordially shaking the other man's hand while peering quizzically at him.

"Very nice to meet you, Rolf, I'm Luna Lovegood." Then, to Neville's immense satisfaction, she added, "This is my fiance, Neville Longbottom."

Feeling that his hand was cold and clammy, Neville linked his arm with hers and tried to demonstrate a threatening, possessive posture. "Pleased to meet you, Mr..."

"Scamander," the other filled in neatly. "Sorry about that, Miss Lovegood, Mr. Longbottom. Lee's an old chum of mine, and he likes his little jokes."

"Damn right I do," Jordan chortled, apparently thinking the whole affair very funny indeed.

"Very nice to meet you. See you around, Mr. Scamander," Neville pointedly said, and led Luna away into a corner.

"You oughtn't be worried, sweetheart," Luna remarked gently when they were in such privacy. "I wouldn't have kissed him even if there weren't any nargles."

Broodily, Neville pursed his lips and glanced back at his perceived opponent. _He's so lean_ , he inwardly commented, appraising the other man. _A damn sight more attractive to her, I'm sure, with his fair hair and his high cheekbones...  
_

To further comfort him, Luna wound her hand in his.

_..._ _Of course, he does wear glasses, but what academic doesn't? He's an obviously one, with his tweed and the book he's got in his pocket, and he seems to know something about obscure magical creatures--that's definitely something he and Luna have in common..._

"Neville, I know you're afraid to lose me," he heard her whisper, breaking into his thoughts. "That's natural. But you can't always be with me. You'll have to trust me when you're not around."

Feeling tears stinging his eyes, Neville turned to embrace her fully. She responded in kind, hugging him very tightly and rubbing her hand along his back in a comforting way.

"I am afraid to lose you," he whimpered, feeling his chest constrict as the adrenaline shock ebbed. "It's not...oh, it's not rational, I know that, but Luna...oh, I do _so_ love you."

Without a word, Luna ran her fingers up his neck, tilted his head, and stood on tiptoe to bestow the deepest, most passionate kiss he could remember.

"Wrackspurts gone?" she asked as she drew away gently.

Not knowing how to reply, precisely, Neville forwent using words, instead returning the kiss as best he could.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

**Near and Far**

After a plain dinner of oak-smoked cheddar, fresh bread, and kippers, Neville and Luna had a rare evening with Xenophilius. His latest experiment--he was trying to spell book characters out of their binding and bring them to life--had resulted in partial success, though the end result was that his entire workshop was burnt down. (Perhaps it would have been better for poor Xeno to have chosen some pleasant Bronte or Austen novel rather than the wizarding children's book, _Roary the Dragon Hunter_.)

In any case, as Neville settled back on the couch for his near-habitual after-dinner nap, he paid attention to the interaction of his fiancee and her father as they sipped exotic Romanian tea, tinkered with a thousand-piece puzzle, and whispered about fantastical things on the carpet. Xeno was sitting cross-legged, picking through the pieces, and Luna was a little farther away, playing with a few and trying to fit them into the partially-complete picture.

The wireless was also on, and as Neville closed his eyes, he heard a slur of words and music.

_And now, folks, we bring you_ _Oedipus, King of Rock 'n Roll, and his new hit, 'Nuthin' but a Sluagh.' Let's give him a hand!_

"Daddy, I saw an arctic owl come with a letter with a return address at Kristianstad Basin. You didn't mention that you got a letter from up north."

_'You ain't nuthin' but a Sluagh,_

_Cryin' at my west window._

"Oh, yes of course, my dear. Arberry gives us his blessing, and he wants to let us know that they've got a fossil, just found last week, that might be our big lead. Apparently, they've found some new ceratopsid teeth, they're almost certain of them being ceratopsid, but they want me to take a look at them for sure."

_'You ain't nuthin' but a Sluagh,_

_Cryin' at my west window._

_"_ There's more news, Luna. Arberry also thinks that they might have found something bigger, and that it might just be our Snorkack. They're wanting me to come up and join them on a permanent basis fairly soon. They'll have it--whatever it is--plastered and in the preparation lab in less than a month."

_Well, you ain't never gonna get my soul_

_And y'aint no friend of mine!'_

"Oh, Daddy, that's wonderful! Does that mean we'll be going to Sweden sometime soon? I was rather thinking lately, that since we've not had much luck there, you would be considering going to the States this year instead for the hunting. It made me rather sad, because I do so love Sweden."

_Well, they said you was in heaven,_

_Well, that was just a lie._

"Ah, _älskling_ , you thought wrong! Would your father give up just because he has not succeeded _yet_? No! I would not! And besides, Arberry's been promising me a job for so long--ah! My dream! A full-time paleontologist on the field!"

_Well, they said you was (welcome) in heaven,_

_Well, that was just a lie._

"You've had many dreams, Daddy. When do you think you'll go?"

_Well, you ain't never gonna get my soul_

_And y'aint no friend of mine!'_

"When _we_ go, you mean. I'm not going alone. The father and daughter team, just as it's always been. Oh, well, I was thinking about May or June. Of course, we usually go as soon as you're out of school, but now that you're not in school anymore, we can go whenever we like."

_'You ain't nuthin' but a Sluagh,_

_Cryin' at my west window._

"But Daddy, what about _The Quibbler_? What about your current project? And, in case you forgot, I'm getting married in May or June."

_'You ain't nuthin' but a Sluagh,_

_Cryin' at my west window._

"Oh, I can just sell off _The Quibbler_ ; I'm rather bored of it anyhow. And I'm so close to being done with _Vita Simulo Animus_ that it'll be done before then, most certainly. And can't you two lovebirds tie it any sooner than that?"

_Well, you ain't never gonna get my soul_

_And y'aint no friend of mine!'_

"Daddy, how many times have you said 'if only your mother was a June bride...'?"

With that, Xenophilius stood and turned off the wireless. "I didn't think of that," he replied, sounding pained. "Can't we just...bring him along? And you two can get married there, with all our friends, in Sweden. What about that?"

"They're your friends, Daddy, and my friends, but not Neville's friends. Besides." She turned to glance at Neville, who feigned sleep. (However, he had not hitherto missed any important snippet of information!) "He's so...British. It would make him happy to be married here, I think. I don't suppose he'd like the colder climate. Why don't you just go, Daddy? You haven't been Snorkack hunting since the war, and it would make you so happy. I'll be just fine taking care of the magazine. You always are so eager to get back to it when we return from our trips; you'd regret selling it."

"Hm." Xeno considered this. "Don't you want me to be here, to give you away at your wedding?"

Luna shrugged. "If you are, I should love it, but if you aren't, I don't mind finding someone else. It's a non-issue."

"I need to think about this," Xeno said, and ambled out of the living-room into the kitchen. The screen door screeched and banged, implying that he had left the house to possibly start rebuilding his workshed.

With that, Luna sighed and flopped onto the couch near Neville. "I hope I didn't sound too bossy," she mused, seeing through his deceptive slumber.

Smiling, he opened his eyes and shook his head. "I don't think so," he replied, "but I didn't know we were getting married in June."

"Oh! I should have asked you, shouldn't I have." The phrase was not a question, however, so Neville thought about it.

"It's all right with me," he decided, "it's soon enough that we're not rushing things, but not so soon that we can't get prepared for it in time."

"What sorts of preparations do you have in mind?" she queried, snuggling into his warm softness, and he took her into his arms.

"A house, for one," he said definitively. "I don't know where--somewhere local, if you like, or somewhere not so local, if you like. It's all the same, really, to me, since we only ever really bother seeing anybody on holidays. And, on my part, getting a stable job. One that I can grow in. And...we need to think about things like children."

He perceived her eyelids shudder rapidly, and he wondered what that meant.

"Oooh," she said, and he was scared for a moment that she didn't like the idea. She put solve on his fear by looking up into his eyes, love and a slightly mischievous light glinting in them. "I can't wait," she whispered in desperate excitement, and, in that moment, Neville realized that he was just as thrilled at the idea.

He initiated the kisses that followed this new decision, and there was something more exciting in them than there ever had been before.

After they became tired and humbled, Luna remembered that her father had gone out without a hat, jumper, or gloves.

"He'll catch his death of cold," she said, trotting up the stairs gaily. Neville followed closely, and leaned in the doorjamb while Luna dug through her father's cedar drawers for the necessary articles.

It was such a domestic scene, watching her paw through the winter clothes in the ethereal light of the candle that she held. Neville treasured it, wondering if someday she'd be doing this for him while he was out in his greenhouse.

Then it occurred to him--since when was Luna so sensible as to remember warm clothes, for anybody, much less herself? He smiled, realizing that maybe she had picked up a little something from him.

That made him even happier, even as he regarded her from afar.

**The Final Touch**

Snape and Poppy Pomfrey were to be married some weeks later, at an evening ceremony and dinner. The morning of the event, Neville called over to Luna's via the Floo.

"At what time should I call for you?" he asked, noting with surprise that Luna was already in the process of doing her hair. _I know some girls take forever to get ready, but Luna's not like that. What's she doing with the curling iron already?_

"Oh, you won't be needing to do that," she said with a smile, "I'm going to have to be there early, you see."

"Why is that?"

"I have to help the bride get dressed and things like that. I'm the Maiden of Honor."

Neville felt his eyebrows singe as they shot up in shock.

"What?!"

"Didn't I tell you?"

He sighed. "No, dearheart, you didn't. Why are you the Maiden of Honor?"

"Well," Luna began, putting her combs down, "as Poppy said, she has no friends that are not married or not too old to be called 'maidens'."

"But why you?" asked Neville, still rather incredulous.

"Because I spent all that time volunteering in the hospital wing."

"Wait," Neville asked, "when did you do that? At Hogwarts?"

"Of course! It was my favorite thing to do, when I was younger, since I didn't really have friends my own age. And Poppy liked to talk to me, and she liked me to talk to her. It was like...having a mother again."

At that point, Neville began to understand. _I often forget how she's also lost a parent. Of course, she never talks about it much. It makes sense that she would adopt a substitute--especially someone as nice and matronly as Madame Pomfrey._

"So," Luna continued, "I did spend rather a lot of time there. It was only natural that after the war, I should continue to do so, helping her bring Professor Snape back to health."

 _Ah!_ Neville realized. _That's how come she's so important to Madame Pomfrey! I never knew she spent so much time in the hospital wing, though. Considering that most of the time I was there, of course, I was usually unconscious or too much in pain to notice things going on around me...and then for such a long time I thought that she wasn't worth looking at just because of what other people said about her..._

"I rather think I helped edge things along with them romantically," Luna added pensively, "though that might be a bit conceited on my part. But they did need a little bit of a catalyst, if you understand what I mean. Professor Snape was too full of self-pity and doubt, and Poppy was too fluttery and shy, so I helped. A little."

Neville chuckled at this. "So you're a Florence Nightingale and a matchmaker. Well, well."

"Not much of a matchmaker," Luna said soberly. "I actually was just talking to Hermione. She said that she needed advice from someone who was a 'cool observer', but I don't suppose she really did. She really just wanted to talk about how nasty Ron's been to her."

"Oh dear," Neville replied, "I know just what that's like. Ginny does the same thing."

"I don't think it's the same thing, not entirely. When she started to talk to me, she said, 'I know you don't like me much, Luna'--by which she clearly meant, 'even though I don't like _you_ much'--but she said that the reason she called me was because she wanted the truth."

 _And I suppose she got right nasty when you did tell it to her_ , Neville presumed. "What did you tell her?"

"Well, I didn't want to be rude, so I let her tell me her perception of the truth for a quarter of an hour until she ran a bit out of steam, and then I suggested that if she was so sick of him, why didn't she end it? I was trying to guide her, to show her to be more grateful for poor Ronald, to help put things in perspective for her. So, I was rather hoping that she would tell me, 'oh, no, I won't do that, I love him'."

"But, she didn't," Neville said, filling in the blank.

"Exactly. Oh, Neville!" Suddenly throwing her things down, she dove through the Floo and into his arms. Sitting back with her on his lap, he saw that her eyes were glassy. He hugged her tighter.

"It's okay," he whispered, "what happened next?"

"Then I told her, 'Oh, well, in that case, do that before the wedding, because you don't want him going to the wedding and feeling all happy that you're at his side and thinking about how you two are going to be married and such. And then she asked me why, and then I said that it'd hurt him a lot less if she told him before and not after. And then you know what she said?"

Neville could guess, but he shook his head.

"She said, 'Oh! In that case, by all means, I'll do it after!'"

"What a horrid thing to say!" Neville exclaimed, though he was not surprised at Hermione's vindictiveness. When that witch hated, she hated with a passion. _That's one reason I'll never, ever be on her wrong side._

"I know!" replied Luna, nestling her face in his shirt. "I shouldn't have said either of those two things. I shouldn't have suggested to end things with him, and I shouldn't have said to end it after the wedding."

"It's not your direct fault," Neville replied, his finger twisting around a ringlet of her warm just-curled hair. "Hermione's clever enough to come up with things all on her own. Besides, it's probably better for Ron that she end things sooner rather than later, if she doesn't really love him."

"But I could never be so...malignant," Luna replied with a shudder. "She's worse than a Belladonna Fairy. Have you heard of those?"

"No. Tell me about them," Neville replied, eager to seize upon a new subject of conversation. He felt her tears on his shoulder, and they made him unhappy on her behalf.

"They're the most promiscuous of the fairies. They only reproduce asexually, so all interpersonal relationships they have are disposable. They live for twenty years, but in that time have over three hundred mates. They're a bit like the Amazons, come to think of it--they don't take mates for the sake of two souls conjoining, but purely for the physical pleasures of intercourse. And then they kill their mate once they're done."

"Repulsive!" Neville inserted deftly.

"Indeed! And, what's very unfortunate is that their numbers are increasing, all around the globe. They wreak nothing but misfortune and unhappiness wherever they go." So saying, Luna sighed, and closed her eyes. "I'm sorry for being so melodramatic. I'm sure it's not all that bad. But things always seem much more depressing when Aunt Florence's coming. Just another reason I'm glad it's a night wedding, and the colors are dark blue and green so I don't have to wear pastel."

"Wait, you told me about your Aunt Florence before," Neville said, frowning. "But I didn't meet her the last time she was around."

"Oh!" To his surprise, Luna began to giggle, sitting up and putting both hands over her mouth. "Oh!" she said again, and began to laugh fully. Neville, rather perplexed, just waited for her to quiet.

Finally, she explained, "It's a euphemism," she said, still flushed and giddy, "that is perhaps a bit archaic. I picked it up from Poppy."

"A euphemism for what?"

She whispered it in his ear, and he turned very, very red.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but now you know."

"Ah--erm. Of course," Neville blustered, wiggling out from under her and standing up, disconcerted. "I should have pegged that one before."

"Maybe," she replied diplomatically. Standing, she surveyed the room, searching for a new topic of conversation. "That isn't a new set of Chanel graftlings, is it?" she asked, going over to a tray of dainty little buds in miniature pots on a garden tray.

"Yes," Neville said, following her over to examine them. They were part of his master's project; he had been interbreeding the fowl-smelling Shmugoosh Flowers, which recently had been discovered to have great medicinal properties, and he had somehow managed to produce a variety that smelled like Chanel No. 5--a vast improvement to their primitive form. "I've been working on them all night. Ugh!" He yawned. "I'll be needing to take a nap when you leave, I think. When's the absolute latest I can show up?"

"The actual ceremony begins at six, so I suppose you have a good seven hours to sleep," Luna said with a nod. "Eight if I leave quickly."

"Not too quickly, or the Wrackspurts will come after me," Neville replied, smiling.

"Have you been infested lately?" she asked, her head tilting like a curious sparrow's.

"Not particularly. But I think I need to be immunized."

With that, they took a few moments for brief but thorough Wrackspurt Prevention Measures.

 _I can't wait until June_ , was Neville's last coherent thought before he settled down for his pre-Wedding nap.

**Author's Note:**

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